Resonance
by dutchrub
Summary: Fate offers Ichabod a chance to return to the 18th Century, and he must make the impossible choice between his wife and his Witness. His decision will reverberate throughout the threads of history.
1. Chapter 1

**Resonance**

**A/N:** _Hello, all! This is my first foray into Sleepy Hollow, and, with any luck, it won't be my last._

_A few moments of transparency upfront: This will be a plot-centric, multi-chapter fic with the whole Scooby Gang. While I'll admit I don't care for Katrina's character, writing this fic is sort of my attempt to make her palatable or, at the very least, redeem her patently useless role. Sounds a bit harsh, but it's time to put that woman to work! No more damsel in distress here.  
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_Quick timeline note – this is set before "Heartless," so Katrina is still living at the cabin. Also, apologies to any resident of Sleepy Hollow/Tarrytown in advance, as I am continuing with the show's topographical creative license. I know the Old Dutch Church in Sleepy Hollow isn't quite how they portrayed it in the show, but I'm going to stick with their canon. Enjoy!_

**Chapter One**

Abbie sat in her car long enough to assess her appearance in her visor mirror. Eyes a bit puffy maybe, but then they usually were after a sleepless night. She could still see faint raccoon rings from her mascara—"Smudge proof, my ass"—but they weren't going anywhere without a good scrubbing, which she hadn't had time for during her hurried morning escape. She ran her hands over her hair to smooth a few errant strands and then blotted a fresh coat of neutral lipstick with a fingertip. It would have to do until she could get a proper shower. Maybe he wouldn't notice—but then again, who was she kidding? He noticed everything, especially the things she didn't wish him to see. With a light sigh, Abbie snapped the visor back into place and grabbed her things from the front seat.

Upon entering Corbin's cabin, she found Ichabod Crane alone in the kitchen washing a small stack of breakfast dishes. His shirt sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, and his damp forearms glistened even in the wan light slanting through the window. There was something mesmerizing about his rhythm: the sweep of his hands as they worked from the outer edges of the plate inward, the tight circles his shoulders made in perfect accompaniment, the soft swishing of domesticity. In stark contrast to pretty much every other man Abbie had ever known, Ichabod did dishes as a deliberately and diligently as he did just about any task. He was not one to do a slipshod job on anything. Hell, even his hem was already tucked uniformly into his breeches, and it was barely nine a.m.

"Morning," she said as she tossed her bag onto the sofa.

Ichabod stopped mid-chore to give the lady a proper greeting. As he faced her, he noticed immediately that she was wearing the same outfit, albeit far more wrinkled, that she had worn when she had left him last night for an unnamed date. His breakfast instantly soured in his stomach. "Good morning, lieutenant," he said carefully as he scrutinized the missing top button of her blouse.

Her tongue poked the inside of her cheek, and she immediately narrowed her eyes at him. "Got something on your mind, Crane?"

"No, nothing at all."

She raised her eyebrows. "Then why are you giving me that look?"

"I assure you I am giving you no _look_," he replied, but immediately cast his glance everywhere else that wasn't the powerful and strong-willed woman in the middle of the room.

"Uh-huh."

Unwilling to continue to face his partner as he interrogated her, he returned to the safety of manual labor. "I trust you had a pleasant evening last night."

Abbie puckered her lips as she reveled in her victory. She knew that judgmental eighteenth century prudish tone anywhere. "I did."

"You met your mysterious admirer for dinner?"

"Sure did."

"And afterward?" he said slowly.

"Had a few drinks at a bar, took a walk by the river."

Ichabod nodded once. "Did the gentleman escort you home safely?" The question was pregnant with implications, his yearning to know everything and nothing all at the same time.

"He did." Ichabod's sigh of relief was audible—and ultimately misplaced. "To his home," she finished.

The next few moments of silence were some of the longest Abbie could remember as he digested her meaning. Despite how miserably uncomfortable the Revolutionary War soldier was, she had to help herself to a small smirk. Boy, did she know how to ruffle that man's feathers, not that it was terribly difficult. Truth be told, it was even a little bit fun.

"I see," he said tightly. "And what time did you return to your home?"

"Haven't been there yet."

He cleared his throat. "So am I to understand—"

"It's just sex, Crane," Abbie blurted as she casually leaned onto the armrest of the couch.

"Just—" He stopped short before he could say the coarse word and whirled around to meet her head on. "You know, in my day, people were more than commodities that were traded on the open market. Most people did not spend their nights in dalliances with casual acquaintances. Relations between couples were sacred; they were carefully cultivated over time. They meant something outside of the obvious," he paused, looking distressed, "pleasure."

"If you liked it, then you should have put a ring on it."

He shrugged one shoulder, the reference completely going over his head. "Yes, I suppose, something like that. The moral and spiritual degradation of our society continues to amaze me."

She laughed. "You know, I'm starting to feel a little judged here."

"My apologies, Miss Mills, but you are a woman worth the wait."

There was no hesitance to his words, no ambiguity to his meaning; on the contrary, there was only complete and utter sincerity. It made the whole thing so much more… significant. Her eyes immediately flicked up to meet his, and she found that he was already awaiting her. They had held each other's gazes many times, but this moment felt different. It was hard to put a finger on—Abbie could always see his respect and admiration for her, but this time his affection was at the forefront. It was inexplicably intense, and Abbie didn't do intense, especially not at nine a.m.

She broke the stare with a crooked, chagrined smile. "Real smooth way to get yourself out of a pickle there. I imagine it's pretty hard for Katrina to put you in the doghouse."

"Yes, well, we didn't own any dogs, but I think I've divined your meaning." He returned to meticulously scrubbing the remnants of eggs from the last plate and studiously avoiding the lieutenant's face. "All I meant was that the world has become beleaguered with mindless hedonists, and, as a result, what this century terms as 'men' have all but lost the art of the pursuit."

Abbie took a seat at the table and propped her elbows on the edge. "What are you talking about?"

Caught up in his ardor, Ichabod faced her and placed both hands squarely on the table, leaning perhaps a bit too close to the lieutenant for such subject matter. "People have forgotten thrill of the courtship, the intense and forbidden stares across candlelit ballrooms; strolls through gardens, hands brushing accidentally on purpose and igniting a burning fire within your breast; stolen moments in hallways where you could look fervidly into your lover's eyes and convey, in just one glance, all you felt deep within your heart. Do people in this era even know what it feels like to lay bare before your beloved and simply appreciate the miracle that she loves and desires only you?"

When he finished, Abbie found, to her surprise, that she had been sucking on her bottom lip. Damn. Maybe later she could convince him to read Harlequin books on tape; they would make a killing, and they could finally fund their anti-Apocalypse army in earnest.

After a long and labored exhale, she managed, "Uh, yeah, you got us there."

"Tell me it's really not all about a 'quickie' in a closet these days."

"Okay, you two have really got to lay off the reality TV."

The door to the bedroom eased open, and Katrina found her husband and Abbie locked in a steady gaze, their eyes bright and private smiles shared between them. Neither acknowledged her entry, let alone seemed to notice it. Katrina took a few steps into the kitchen and said at last, "Good morning, Miss Mills. I trust you are well today."

Abbie's smile instantly vanished, replaced instead with tight lips and a polite nod. "I am, thank you. How are you?"

"Very well. At breakfast, Ichabod and I were discussing taking a walk this morning." Katrina paused for a brief moment, but it was telling, even for someone who wasn't a police officer. "Would you care to join us?"

Abbie shook her head as she stood up. "Thanks, but no. I've got a ton of research to do today and figured it was best to start early. I brought over some books about the Horsemen," she said as she hefted her backpack into the air and then spilled its weighty contents onto the table. "Since we seem to be in between schemes, I thought maybe it might be a good time to see if we can get ahead of their next plan or at least get some insight into their grand design." Katrina's eyes looked a little glazed at the thought of more research, so Abbie eased off the gas. "It can wait until you two get back though."

Katrina's expression turned to one of gratitude. "I appreciate it. All work and no play, you know."

"Yeah, we all need a little play from time to time," Abbie said wryly, and she noticed her allusion to last night had not gone unnoticed by Ichabod. Fish in a barrel.

She grabbed a random book from the haphazard pile and flopped back onto the couch, her feet on one of the armrests. "Well, I'm gonna dive in. Just pretend I'm not here until you get back."

_Like usual_, she added to herself a tad bitterly as the two disappeared through the door. She should have gone home for a shower after all.

Ichabod eased a shawl over his wife's shoulders as they emerged onto the front porch. The weather had recently begun its steady and unceasing march from summer to fall, and with it, the temperature had ticked down accordingly. It was a gray day, the sun sheltered behind a plush carpet of clouds, yet the yellows and reds of the turning leaves injected welcome color across the wooded landscape. The centuries had yet to eradicate the majesty of fall in New York, and it was part of the reason that Ichabod wanted to share a walk with Katrina, to give her some semblance of the world which they had once inhabited.

It was hard to mistake the flash of vibrant red in the corner of his eye. For years, the hue had been a boon to his heart, one that made him stand a little straighter and act a little prouder. With a woman like Katrina at his side, Ichabod had felt damn near invincible—and rightly so, considering he had escaped the icy clutches of Death itself thanks to her love.

But lately, when he was being honest with himself in the depths of the night, he had to concede that their relationship was no longer the stronghold it had once been. Katrina's lies had indeed come between them; however, like many marriages, both parties had to put in the work to overcome the obstacles placed in front of them. Granted, they had probably faced a few more than the average couple, but, in truth, they all boiled down to issues of shattered trust, shaken faith, and lost security. Still, Ichabod was nothing if not tenacious in the face of something worth fighting for.

Perhaps it was simply a matter of logistics. One was bound to grow across the breadth of 250 years and alternate planes of reality. Surprising even himself, Ichabod could not deny that he was, in many ways, becoming a 21st Century man while Katrina remained an 18th Century woman. He had had a head start and a wonderful mentor in Abbie, and this, in and of itself, must have been tiring, perhaps even intimidating, for his wife, who had to start as fresh as a newborn babe. There were even moments where Ichabod found his patience being tested in the face of Katrina's incessant questions and unending marveling, and yet he never forgot that Abbie had unflappably weathered his own fledgling understanding—still weathered it—so he said nothing on the matter.

In an effort to carve out their own space in this century, Ichabod devised a way for their past to meld with their future via a leisure walk through the town proper. It was his earnest hope that it would be the first step to the reconciliation of their hearts and minds.

Ichabod offered his arm to his wife, and together they stepped down onto a crunchy mat of leaves, making their way to the SUV in front of the cabin. Abbie had given Ichabod carte blanche to take her car—provided, of course, that they stayed within a few mile radius and obeyed every road sign (she trusted the man but not his driving skills apparently).

"Where are we headed, my love?" Katrina asked as she hoisted herself awkwardly into the vehicle. It was hard looking like a lady while wearing trousers and heaving oneself into a metal box. At least her husband didn't seem to mind.

"I thought we might make our own historical tour of downtown, if that is amenable to you."

"Yes, I should very much like to see what has become of our sleepy hollow."

Ichabod smiled at her briefly as the engine turned over, and they jettisoned down the road. Though their drive was a short one, they were silent for its entirety as Katrina fruitlessly tried to study the world whizzing outside her window.

"A bit faster than a carriage," Ichabod joked as he eased the car into a parking spot along North Broadway, the main thoroughfare of town.

"And a lot smoother. Although something within me still yearns for the monotony of a horse's hooves." He could not begrudge her that, though, admittedly, he didn't think he could trade four hundred horses for the one any longer.

After helping his wife out of the car, Ichabod led her down the sidewalk into the heart of town. Though it was no sprawling metropolis as his London had been (and presumably still was), Sleepy Hollow still managed a quaint charm in spite of the fracas of idling engines and braying horns in the street. There was a decent stretch of various merchants, yet very few craftsmen, as he would define them. They discovered an art gallery that Katrina fancied, and Ichabod wished he'd had the money to buy her favorite watercolor of the Hudson River. Further down, they chanced upon a candle shop, and much to their surprise, they learned that candles were now strictly recreational. What on earth was an orange dreamsicle, and why would he want his home to smell like one?

But their favorite store, for obvious reasons, was an antiques shop with a wonderful selection of 18th century furniture. Inside, Katrina ran her hands over the dusty pieces as reverently as she did her own husband. There were dining room sets, enormous mirrors that would have graced great halls, even utilitarian items like milking pails and scrub boards.

"Seven thousand dollars for a highboy," Katrina exclaimed, her hand over her heart. "Good lord! We could have owned half the Colonies for such a sum."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you what they charged for tax on top of that," Ichabod grumbled in return. He made a mental note to confront Abbie on the exorbitant inflation of her era—he did relish the look of her exasperated countenance as he lambasted the 21st Century.

As she meandered through the jam-packed interior, Katrina at last took a seat in a wing back chair very much like one they had once owned, and Ichabod's heart stopped at the sight of her. For one astonishing moment, they were home again, as though not one decade had elapsed, awaiting a kettle of stew for supper. If he had had the opportunity, he would have bought the lot and redecorated the cabin accordingly.

Leaving the antiques shop was a very difficult thing to do, and the pangs in their chests resounded between them as they walked farther down the road. As Katrina's arm threaded through his, they reminisced, and just as Ichabod had hoped, he felt more of a connection to his wife than he had since they'd rescued her from Purgatory.

"Do you recognize anything?" he asked as they came to the edge of the shopping district.

She sighed. "How could I? This doesn't feel like another time but another planet entirely."

"Perhaps if I gave you some markers. Over there," he gestured to a squat, ugly troll of a gas station, "would have been the farrier, Mr. Wright, and beside him, Mr. Elliot."

"The drayman?"

"The very same."

She examined the gas station and its neighboring office building, then shook her head. "Impossible. You're teasing me."

"I would do no such thing," he said, though his arched eyebrow suggested otherwise.

"Very well. And where would Monsieur Du Motier have been?

Ichabod smiled as he recalled the many times his wife had looked longingly into the milliner's shop. While she usually rebuked such earthly trifles, there really was nothing quite like a fine hat. Sometimes she would go inside just to rub the silken ribbons between her fingers and chat idly with the Frenchman. Though she insisted she was just being kind and dutiful to her community, her husband knew her well enough to know she was really angling for a deal down the road.

After Ichabod gently revealed that her beloved shop had been leveled for an unkempt parking lot, Katrina's expression turned dour. "I'm trying to remember what these places must have looked like, but to no avail."

Ichabod's mouth shrugged. "Forest, forest everywhere. I remember how the landscape seemed infinite, boundless even. Now superfluous signs delineate every nook and cranny, and there's very little left to the imagination."

Katrina tugged her shawl about herself as a stiff breeze picked up, skittering some errant maple leaves across the sidewalk. "With each growing day, I find it harder and harder to picture our old life."

"Then perhaps I should take you somewhere you may very well recognize."

Instantly, Katrina's demeanor galvanized with the blossoming of renewed hope. "You really are such a rotten tease."

A few blocks down the road, and they rounded a corner where they came upon a meticulously kept lawn leading toward two huge cedar doors. A soaring tower crowned with a half dozen spires punctured the gray heavens while a flurry of yellow leaves sailed down around the couple. The Old Dutch Church spread out before them, welcoming them home. Though it had been remodeled over the course of the passing centuries, Katrina would have known it anywhere. It had been her family's church, her church—she still considered it hers. "Oh, Ichabod," she sighed wistfully. "Could we go inside?"

"Not yet. There's something I'd like to show you first."

He took her hand and guided her across the church grounds, letting her drag her fingertips along the pitted brick edifice that had witnessed the triumphs of several wars, the despair of leaner times, and thousands of marriages like their own. Down a short flight of stairs and around the rear of the church was a shadowed graveyard with which he was entirely too acquainted. His eidetic mind led them easily through the maze of tombstones jutting like rotting 18th century teeth from the maw of the earth, until they stopped before a crumbling marker overrun with vines. Though many of the neighboring stones had lost their legibility after decades of exposure, the inscription on this tomb was as sharp as when the monument mason had brought his chisel to the stone.

"Here lieth the duft of Katrina Crane, burnt for witchcraft. Died 1782. Aged 32 years." Reading aloud her own epitaph conjured a roiling of nausea in Katrina's stomach. She could not clutch her shawl tight enough to fight back the savage claws that tore at her heart.

Ichabod wrapped her in an embrace that managed to steady her on her feet. He pressed his cheek against her hair and said, "You cannot imagine the depths of my despair as I read the words of your demise with such finality." He kissed her crown once and pulled back, his hands holding her face, his eyes holding her gaze. "And then my utter elation when I found it all to be a clever ruse to hide the Horseman's head."

"Dearest Ichabod, I am so sorry for—"

He smiled softly to silence her fears. "Let there be no more apologies between us. I showed you this only so that you might understand what I experienced upon my reanimation. We must remain united in the face of Moloch and his ilk. Everything has led us here, and this is where I must trust we were meant to be. However difficult things may become, let us remember that, confounding all probability, at least we are both still breathing."

Katrina held him fiercely in their unspoken agreement. When at last she could bear to separate from him, they returned to the church proper and made their way toward the entrance. Ichabod paused for a moment at a cornerstone of the building, his eyes focusing on a thin, smooth gash in the masonry.

"This is where the Abraham beheaded the Reverend Knapp."

"A descendent of my Alfred Knapp?" she asked incredulously, fondly recounting the beloved face of her fellow coven member.

Ichabod's only answer was a slow shake of his head as he held open one mammoth door for Katrina. She eased inside, finding the interior completely transmogrified. The warm wooden nave had been mostly plastered and modernized. There were subtle nods to her past—the choice of sconces, the sweeping archways, the original altar before which she had knelt countless times until she ultimately made the decision to join the Quakers—yet there just as many eradications of it. The original pews had been lost, and though she held no claim here anymore, she still named the second row back as the Van Tassel family pew.

Ichabod roused her from her reverie with a firm hand on her arm as he guided her to a line of photographs on the wall. Recognition, along with astonishment, flared within her eyes. It was indeed the very same Alfred she knew, the man she had trusted above anyone else in her coven.

"How is it possible he survived to this century?" she breathed at last, one finger tracing the cool plastic frame.

"I'm afraid that's a mystery we may never know. Whatever enchantment prolonged his life could not withstand the blade of a broadaxe."

Unbidden tears welled in the corners of her eyes, and she blinked hard to fight them back. "Perhaps he had charged himself as the sentry of a great many of our secrets, at what personal cost, I can only imagine."

"To that end, he served admirably."

She spent a few moments longer staring at the familiar face trapped behind the glass, every hair and wrinkle precisely as she remembered it. Photography truly was akin to modern witchcraft. Alfred looked so real, so alive, that she wondered if she could divine a spell that would resurrect him from the paper.

Suddenly, Katrina turned to her husband, her eyes wide and her mouth agape as the spark of realization lit within her. If she was right, everything they knew of this war was about to change.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Just a quick note of gratitude to the Guest who commented on the first chapter—upon reexamining that specific line you mentioned, I noticed you are absolutely right. I had not intended the duplicate meaning, but thank you for catching it. As soon as I come up with a suitable revision, I'll fix it! Thanks for your keen eyes!

**Chapter Two**

As usual, the Sleepy Hollow Sherriff's Department hummed with its general suburban business. Phones chirruped and staples hammered mountains of precinct paperwork into orderly piles. A lady with too much perfume and not enough to do complained loudly to an officer about the theft of her favorite gnome statue from her front yard. On the other side of the office, Detective Morales leaned back in his chair, his feet on his desk, licking peanut butter off of a spoon and laughing at his partner's raunchy jokes. Yeah, they may not have had the notoriety of the NYPD, but whether they knew it or not, they were all soldiers drafted into an anti-Apocalypse army. And that's the way Lieutenant Mills liked it.

Abbie hunched over her desk, paperwork fanned out in front of her, skimming each sheet for a clue. Her phone's receiver pressed hotly into her ear as Crane paced audibly on the other end of the line. "Anything yet?"

"Cool your jets. I'm just perusing the evidence log now."

He huffed, and the corner of Abbie's mouth twitched in a brief half-smile. Ichabod Crane was a constant enigma. He could read _Beowulf _cover-to-cover—in Old English no less—without uttering a single exasperated sigh, but make the man wait two minutes for an answer, and she got an earful. Ironic considering he came from an era where a person had to wait weeks for a response to a letter about what he had for lunch.

Another minute ticked by before the voice in her ear started griping again. "Good lord, did you nip off for high tea? You should have let me come down there with you, Lieutenant. We could have greatly expedited matters."

"That would have been fine, except now 'we' are three, not two, and I'm not even trying to explain away _two_ Colonists to the sheriff when you just got into her good graces," Abbie retorted.

No answer from the peanut gallery.

"Nothing," she said at last, leaning back in her chair, "there's nothing."

"Nothing?" Crane said incredulously.

"Not a journal, not a diary, not even a ledger. Is Katrina sure Knapp would have kept his book of spells with him? We're talking about a man who hid a severed head in your wife's grave and a map to Purgatory in the secret tomb of our first President."

"I am quite sure, Miss Mills," Katrina replied firmly.

Great, so Ichabod had figured out speakerphone and this was now a Crane family conference call. Abbie was glad he couldn't see her knitted brow.

"Witches keep their spell books close to them at all times," Katrina continued, "to guard against their magic falling into novice, or worse yet, practiced hands. They're not unlike family Bibles, often passed down with the bloodline. Each generation adds its own spells, rituals, and advice to prepare the legacy. Spell books are as necessary to a witch as breathing, and Alfred would not have kept it far from his person."

Abbie shook her head slightly. There was always another wrinkle to Katrina's story, always one more important detail she had neglected to share. But then again, centuries of secret-keeping could make one forgetful. The lieutenant decided to stay out of it. She could only imagine the quizzical face her partner was making on the other end of the line, and she was infinitely grateful she didn't have to be in the room when it all went down.

"Where do you keep yours?" Abbie asked.

Katrina hesitated, and Abbie could feel the growing discomfort even across the distance. "I'm afraid that with my unexpected imprisonment in Purgatory, I was unable to charge anyone with its safekeeping. I have no idea what happened to it, and despite my own efforts, I have been unable to locate it. I hope for all our sakes that it's been lost to the ages."

Silence from all parties. Great, just great. Something new to worry about.

"Okay," Abbie breathed slowly. "Any suggestions on how we can find this thing?"

"I could try a location spell, but I'll need something of Alfred's first."

* * *

><p>By the time Abbie returned to the cabin, the place was eerily silent, save for the crackling of a few logs in the fireplace. She called out for the Cranes, and before she could get worried, both parties emerged from separate rooms. Abbie's eyes flicked between the two. Katrina was working on something between her hands while Ichabod was obviously working something across the plane of his mind. Neither addressed her as they had that same morning, nor did they seem to acknowledge each other's presence. They were both acting, for lack of a better word, weird. With any luck, Katrina would easily locate Reverend Knapp's spell book, and Abbie would have the perfect excuse to leave this awkward moment in which she didn't belong anyway.<p>

"Will this work?" the lieutenant asked as she reached into her bag and extracted, fresh from the Sherriff's Department evidence locker, the neatly folded red cincture Reverend Knapp had worn around his waist the night he was beheaded. A small smattering of maroon droplets besmirched the holy fabric at its fringe, a grisly reminder of violence it had witnessed. As she handed it to Katrina, Abbie watched the witch's eyelids lower under the weight of her sorrow.

Katrina squeezed the fabric once and imagined it was her friend she was squeezing. She pictured Alfred as clearly as she could, from his shock white hair to his spirited eyes to his aged hands, lined with wrinkles like maps connecting points in his history. How those hands had guided her so conscientiously, even from the beginning of their acquaintance.

She could hear his gravelly voice, always with an edge of sternness, especially as he mentored her in spellcraft. "You must take heed, Katrina," he said, grasping both of her hands firmly in his own. "Your book of spells is your most sacred possession, and you must do whatever you can to protect it from those who are unworthy. If you think it is hidden well enough, best to add one extra precaution."

In the middle of her silent memorial, her eyelids snapped open. "The location spell won't work," Katrina blurted.

"Why not?" Abbie asked.

"Alfred was a brilliant warlock descended from one of the oldest magical bloodlines. He will have thought to conceal it from such an obvious charm by cloaking it in white magic. The only way to uncover it is to recite the same word he used to bind it."

Abbie nodded slowly. "Like a password?"

"Essentially, yes."

The lieutenant quirked an eyebrow. "Well, you knew him best. Any idea what that could be?"

Katrina racked her brain for more memories of her coven member, but they felt untouchable, like she was at the end of a long corridor lined with a thousand doors, and she didn't have a key to any of them. Dozens of words floated to the top of her mind, but she could tell by the hollowness resounding inside of her that none of them had unlocked the book's location.

She hugged the cincture to her heart and focused all of her energy into it. _Alfred, I need you_. Almost instantly, she felt his comforting presence shepherding her into a memory. She looked to her right and instead of her husband, she saw the wizened old warlock walking beside her. His eyes were focused off into the distance at something she couldn't pinpoint. "My dear Katrina," he began in a light tone, "I pray your indulgence in advance, but something about this immaculate weather has buoyed my spirit, and I am afraid I am at its mercy."

"You already know I'll indulge you any trifle you wish, so I am at your service."

Katrina took his arm, and they meandered down the middle of a dusty road, her long skirt swishing noisily about her ankles. The weather was indeed as lovely as she had ever experienced. The temperature was cool enough to keep her from stifling under the weight of her stays and petticoat while the sun still spied on them playfully behind darting tufts of clouds. Her hair, artfully pinned up in a tight bun, was thankful for the low humidity. A rowdy troop of children playing hoop-and-dart shot past them, leaving behind only a trail of dust and the dull ringing of their sticks whacking against the metal hoops.

Alfred watched genially after them. "Ah, to be young again. To have only the care of chasing a hoop and your playmates. It's a world of infinite possibilities and yet perfect simplicity."

"Seems a very long time ago," she conceded.

"It was for me truly," he said with a laugh, and she joined in good-naturedly.

"What would you change if you could do it all again?" she asked at length.

Alfred raised one eyebrow as he mused. He glanced around at his surroundings, his eyes settling on a storefront brimming with men's clothing. A young man emerged, tall and proud as he tugged assuredly on the sleeves of his newest greatcoat. The shiny buttons winked in the sunlight as the smell of new leather mixed with the fragrance of the tulip trees. "I think I should have liked to be a haberdasher," the warlock responded.

"Really? And why is that?"

"For one, I imagine there's a lot less peril in fitting a man for a jacket than there is guarding against the Apocalypse." Katrina smiled in agreement, and he continued, "And I rather like saying the word 'haberdasher,' don't you?"

"It is a good word indeed."

At length, he patted her hand and offered a grandfatherly smile. "Forget I said anything. Just dismiss it all to the aimless prattling of a very old man."

"You, prattle? Never!"

"You're an amiable girl, Katrina, and someday your very own prattling husband will be grateful for you infinite patience." They exchanged affectionate countenances as Alfred escorted her home.

The aroma of a fire brought Katrina back to reality like a whiff of smelling salts. Though she was back in the present, she felt surrounded by Alfred's presence, and with renewed certainty, she targeted her mind on his book of spells and whispered, "Haberdasher." A jolt of energy coursed through her extremities, leaving her fingertips tingling, and she silently thanked her old friend. She knew without a doubt that she had just undone the hex protecting his book.

At last, Katrina nodded her head at her husband, and Ichabod obediently unfurled a map of Tarrytown on the small coffee table. She placed the cincture beside it, and between them, she dropped the spherical pebble she'd been rolling between her fingers.

"Once I begin the spell," she began without preamble, "the stone with reveal where to begin your search, but it will be vague. You will need to take it with you and let it guide you to the book's resting place. I must remain here to keep up the enchantment, but make please haste. The longer a spell endures, the more taxing it becomes on its caster."

The Witnesses nodded, and Katrina kneeled on the floor. Abbie placed her cell phone on the edge of the table. "We'll call you once we find it."

Katrina raised both hands, one above each bookending item, and closed her eyes. Her voice was low and steady, with the practiced strength of centuries of experience, as she repeated her incantation in smooth succession: "_Nunc quod perierat reveletur_."

At first, Abbie thought her eyes were deceiving her, but by Katrina's third recitation, she noticed the pebble was slowly rolling toward the map. The more Katrina recited the spell, the faster the stone rolled until it stopped sharply on The Old Dutch Church.

"Katrina was right," Ichabod said to his partner. "The reverend was indeed keeping it close."

Abbie raised her eyebrows. "Hex or no hex, detectives went over that place with a fine-toothed comb. I'm pretty sure an ancient spell book would have made it onto the evidence roster. Must be hidden pretty well."

Ichabod scooped up the stone and pinched it between two fingers. "And that is why we have this little bauble."

They gathered a few supplies and headed out to the car, leaving Katrina chanting on her knees. Abbie floored her accelerator as Ichabod worried the pebble in his hand and stared pensively out the window. "What's on your mind, Crane?" she asked, stealing a few glances at her partner. "You've been acting strange since I got back from the precinct."

"It's nothing."

"It's not nothing. It's always something with you. Katrina stuff?"

His brow furrowed slightly and he frowned. "What does it say about our relationship that our marital issues have been labeled as 'more stuff'?"

"Everyone goes through rough patches, Crane."

"Yes, but ours seem to go on indeterminably."

Abbie sighed inwardly. Damn, here she was again, right in the middle of something that was none of her business. She hated talking about Ichabod's marriage, and she wished she could avoid the topic all together, but since the Witnesses were united by fate and a boundless confidence in one another, there was no way she could ignore such a huge part of her partner's life. Friendship was about taking the bad with the good, as she supposed so was marriage, which was probably why talking about Katrina, even equitably, behind her back, made Abbie feel like the Other Woman—without all the benefits. Someday soon, Abbie would probably have to establish some boundaries, but for now, she couldn't cut off the man's only confidant in 250 years.

_Arm's length, Abs, _she reminded herself. _Arm's length_.

"The important thing is that you work through your issues together," she said lamely, and then added internally, _without me._ It was hard enough being a Witness to the Apocalypse let alone being a witness to an imploding marriage.

Ichabod stared out the window, watching the darkening sky fade into the serpentine blackness of the Hudson. Beyond the shoreline, families were serving dinner, children were finishing schoolwork, and couples were snuggling on couches. It was a portrait of perfect domesticity from which he was conspicuously absent.

"I was angling for precisely that this morning, Lieutenant. For a brief time, Katrina and I were connected like we had been during the War. I felt like she was mine again, that we were our old selves and none of this," he gestured around the car, "had come to pass. But here we are, mere hours later, and there are yet more secrets uncovered which she had not deigned to share."

Abbie shrugged one shoulder. "You've got a cut her a little slack, Crane. It was kind of her job to keep secrets. You can't expect her to share them all at once or you'd be overwhelmed."

Ichabod's eyes widened, and he said at last, "You're right."

"As usual."

It was true, of course. Maybe he was holding his wife to an unreasonably high standard. She was human, after all, just as capable of making mistakes as he, and as long as he was being fair, Ichabod had to acknowledge that some of her secrets had happened long after he had been buried. How could she have told him? But then he remembered all those weeks he had languished after his revival and how, in their many correspondences across the veil of Purgatory, she had neglected to tell him they had a son. That was more than a gross oversight—it was selfish.

"Tell me, lieutenant," he said, breaking their companionable silence, "how does one build trust once it's been lost?"

Abbie's hands flashed up from the steering wheel in a clear stopping motion. "Oh no, you're barking up the wrong tree, Crane. I've got more trust issues than _I _know what to do with. You don't want my advice, believe me." She glanced at him long enough to register the look of dejection on his face. She sighed briefly before she added, "Look, I know this may sound weird, but maybe you should talk to Jenny. After all, I'm the one earning her trust back."

"Fair enough."

Pure relief flooded Abbie's face and washed through her body, releasing all the tension she hadn't even noticed collecting in her shoulders. Ichabod was too keen-eyed to mistake it. "Have I made you uncomfortable, Miss Mills?" His question was rewarded with those wide eyes that he'd grown so fond of.

"No, well…" Guess they were going to discuss this right here and now. She wished she'd had something more tactful prepared, but like almost everything in her life, she just shot from the hip. Time to rip off the Band-Aid. "You know you can trust me with anything."

"With everything," he amended.

Despite what she was about to say, Abbie smiled. Ichabod was the truest friend she had ever known… and she was about to let him down. Her smile faded into tight lips. "Yeah. But maybe there are some things you shouldn't."

"I see."

"It's not a big deal, really. I'm here to listen if you need it. I'm just… I'm not really great with relationships."

He turned away from her and watched, hypnotized, as the miles of guardrail slithered by like an unbroken metal snake. "Perhaps, it seems, neither am I."

"Look, we can talk about this later, okay? We're almost there." Abbie eased the car into the church parking lot, grateful for an excuse to end the awkward conversation.

The moment her partner set boot to asphalt, the pebble he'd been worrying came to life. He could feel it quivering in his hand, like a dog trembling with excitement to go outside. "Lieutenant, I think something's—"

Abruptly, the stone leapt from his hand and took off rolling determinedly across the parking lot. The Witnesses exchanged bemused glances before trotting after it, doing their best not to lose sight of it in the curtain of night. With a supernatural single-mindedness, the pebble rolled up a short flight of steps, down a winding pathway, until it bumped stubbornly into the church's side door like a miniature battering ram. The ridiculous sight was too much for Abbie, and she let out a single disbelieving laugh. She gave the door a shove, hoping it was unlocked as she didn't really relish the idea of breaking into a church, but found to her relief that it was.

The impediment removed, the pebble took off like bullet down the spartan hallway and hung a sharp left around the next corridor. Soles scrambling for purchase on the slick laminate floors, Ichabod rounded the bend hard as he endeavored to catch up, his shoulder colliding with the wall. He managed to catch sight of the stone just as it squeezed under a doorway at the end of the hall. Without any semblance of his 18th Century manners, Ichabod burst through the door, startling the gentleman relaxing behind it.

"Excuse me!" shouted the middle-aged resident as he launched up from his seat at his desk.

Abbie jogged in behind Ichabod, already waving her badge. "Lieutenant Abbie Mills, Sheriff's Department. Sorry to barge in like that, sir. We're investigating the murder of Reverend Knapp, and we're following up on a lead."

"Someone could have knocked," the man grumbled as he approached the lieutenant to examine her badge.

"Yeah, sorry about that," she said, her cheeks flushed from exercise and chagrin. "My partner's a little gung ho."

She recognized the room from the investigation reports as Knapp's old residence. Almost nothing had changed since the crime scene photographs had been taken. The space was sparsely decorated, as befitted a clergyman, with a neatly-dressed twin bed, a squat dresser, a pristine desk, and an end table. Aside from a crucifix and a couple religious paintings, it looked like it could have been any low-end motel room. More than likely, this current resident was the new pastor, and Abbie felt infinitely more awkward about barging into his space.

While his partner explained away their sudden intrusion, Ichabod was on his hands and knees, scouring the floor for the vanished pebble. It had to be there somewhere; there were no other exits. His eyes swept back and forth purposefully as he examined every nook as meticulously as he perused Washington's Bible. He could find no sign of the stone. Muttering under his breath, he sat back on his heels and cast his eyes skyward, asking for some sort of guidance. As if in immediate answer, he noted a small black spot at the meeting of the ceiling and wall. He thought it was a spider at first, but once Ichabod stood, he could immediately tell that the stone had ascended the wall and come to a stop. X marks the spot.

Ichabod swiped the nearby chair and climbed on it. His fingers grasped the stone and tried to pry it away from the ceiling but found that it was stuck as if by glue. He used both hands, but still it wouldn't budge. Frustrated, he squinted hard at the obstinate object, hoping his anger would dissolve its bond (it didn't), when he discovered that the crown molding didn't quite line up with the latest paint job, as if it had been recently moved. Using his finger as a wedge, he scooted the molding down until it abruptly swung downward, dangling by a single nail.

Behind it was a narrow cavern just wide enough to hide a Bible-sized book. He reached his hand inside the darkness and prayed there wasn't something sinister lurking. His fingers grazed leather skin and uneven paper ribbing, and his heart jumped with excitement. He gingerly extracted the book from its hiding place and clutched it safely under his arm. Suddenly, he felt a strange tickling and realized the stone had followed suit, rolling along his sleeve and coming to rest firmly on the book's cover. Ichabod couldn't hide his triumphant smile.

"I have it, Lieutenant," he trumpeted as he descended the chair.

Abbie excused herself from her conversation with the pastor and called Katrina to end the spell. Immediately, the pebble dropped from the book and braked to a gentle stop in the middle of the floor so she could put it in her pocket. She grinned knowingly back at her partner. Finally, a victory without bloodshed.

She motioned Ichabod over to the pastor, and his demeanor instantly sobered. "Please accept my humble apologies, good Reverend. In my haste, I neglected to behave like a civilized person. I hope you will not hold it against Lieutenant Mills or myself." Ichabod offered one of his charming bows in conciliation, and Abbie knew they were forgiven. No one could resist a bow from a gentleman.

After tacking up the drooping molding and offering one final apology, the pair returned to their vehicle, adrenaline still racing through their veins. No sooner had they taken their seats than Ichabod cracked open the handwritten tome and began examining it. Under the narrow beam of the map light, he flipped hungrily through its pages, occasionally pausing to study some sketches or scribbles.

"What's in it?" Abbie asked as she hurried them down the highway.

"Incantations, summoning spells, drawings, codes—it's a veritable cornucopia of witchcraft history. Thus far, I've counted five different styles of handwriting in four different languages. This type of parchment," he lifted the book to his nose and breathed in the musty scent of bygone eras, "I've seen it before in the antiquity books even in my days at Oxford. I would say this journal dates from as far back as the 1500s, perhaps even earlier."

"We hit the jackpot, Crane," she said, squeezing the wheel tightly in excitement. "Maybe with this, we can finally deal some real damage to Moloch."

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of movement and realized it was his fist, ready and waiting for a celebratory bump. She started to laugh, but when she turned to look at him, shock overtook her. Ichabod's face was covered in raised purple and black hives that crept under the collar of his shirt and even began to peek out from under his cuffs. "What's wrong with your skin?"

"Nothing. I feel f—" With that, he slumped forward like a marionette whose strings had just been cut, his head lolling against his seatbelt.

"Crane!" she shouted, veering wildly into opposing traffic. Abbie righted the car and shook his shoulder with a free hand, but he was unresponsive. She could still feel a pulse despite the car's vibrations, so she floored it back to the cabin where their only salvation was waiting.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Grace Abigail Mills had many sides. She had to. Growing up in foster care, trying to keep herself out of the nuthouse and off the streets, she had learned how to disassociate, how to divide herself into neat and equal pieces so that people only knew the parts she thought they should. There were the "safe" sides she liked to show off, the ones she thought would garner respect: strong Abbie, professional Abbie, sassy Abbie. People liked these versions of her; they liked how simple and straightforward and dependable they were. They made social entanglements easily manageable, which was great for a woman who feared rejection and, ultimately, abandonment. Only a chosen few knew her secret faces—frightened, insecure, vulnerable—and Katrina was not one of them.

But desperate times…

As she skidded across the gravel driveway, Abbie slammed the car into park and jumped out, running full speed to the passenger side. "Katrina!" she shouted as loud as she could, recognizing with horror the break in her voice. She was pretty sure people on the other side of town could hear it, but there was no time for embarrassment. "Katrina, help!"

The door to the cabin flew open and the witch charged out, her hair flowing behind her like wind-whipped flames. Ichabod's body was spilling out of the passenger side, held up only by the seat belt and Abbie's petite frame. "Good God, what has happened?" she exclaimed.

"Help me get him out," Abbie commanded, unlocking the belt and supporting his right arm around her shoulder. Ichabod gave no response as his head drooped lifelessly.

Tears were already pricking at the corners of Katrina's eyes, but Abbie shut her down firmly. "We've got to move, Katrina. There's no time."

Here at last was strong Abbie, the one you wanted in a time of crisis. Using the burst of adrenaline surging through her veins, Abbie wrapped Ichabod's arm tightly around her shoulder and heaved up with her legs. Though her eyes still burned with unshed tears, Katrina did as Abbie dictated, supporting his other arm and shouldering his weight as best as she could.

There was nothing so heavy as dead weight, and despite the fact that Ichabod was unresponsive, Abbie felt him pulling her down. Her legs felt like cooked spaghetti, and she knew she could collapse at any moment. As with most things in her life, she just had to keep telling herself, _One more step. One more step_. At last, they crested the porch and squeezed through the narrow frame, dumping Ichabod gently on the couch before Abbie's knees gave out. She kneeled on the floor, panting and concerned, one hand clutching his arm and stroking him with her thumb.

The marks were spreading, covering him in dark blotches like barnacles on a ship's hull. They clustered most densely around under his jaw line and down his neck, so thick that it was hard to know what his own skin looked like anymore. His breathing grew labored, his exhalations wheezy and his inhalations staccato.

Katrina let the nurse she had once been take over, and she pressed her hand to her husband's head as she tried to assess the situation. "Tell me what happened," she said as she started to undo the strings at the top of his shirt.

Abbie could not look away from Ichabod's handsome face now disfigured with gruesome splotches. His eyes were closed and his nostrils flared as he puffed frantically for air. His arms and shoulders spasmed involuntarily as his hands clenched and released. Abbie's heart sank as she realized she could not shoulder any of the war that was raging inside of him. It seemed like every second she lost more of him to this otherworldly plague. "We got the book and started coming back here. Crane was skimming through it, and the next thing I know, I look over and he passes out."

"The book," Katrina declared as she darted into the kitchen and started rifling through cupboards. "I knew these pox looked familiar."

"Is this some 18th Century disease he contracted from the pages?"

"Not quite," the witch responded as she tossed various spices and oils into a mixing bowl. "More like another protection spell Alfred imbued in its pages, a final snare to protect its secrets."

"Well, it would have been damn nice to know that beforehand," Abbie raged as she grasped Ichabod's forearm between both her hands. She was losing her cool, becoming unstable Abbie again. She was revealing too much to this woman she didn't yet fully trust, but it was so damn hard to control her emotions when it came to Crane.

"Obviously I did not know of it, did I?" Katrina fired back.

No use arguing as it wasn't going to save Crane. Abbie shot Katrina a brief apologetic glance before she leveled out her tone. "Can you cure it?"

"I believe so, but I need Alfred's spell book."

Abbie dashed out to collect the book from the floor of the passenger seat where she had last seen it while Katrina busied herself undressing Ichabod. She eased his shirt up his abdomen, unable to hold in her gasp as she revealed the breadth of his illness. His entire torso was black with the pox, leaving his smooth skin crusted with supernatural death.

Guilt nearly crippled Katrina. She should have thought things through, reasoned things out more. It was the very thing for which Alfred had chastised her many times during his lectures on spellcraft. She would write spells without thinking of their implications, without minding how one poorly chosen word could irrevocably change the balance of an enchantment, and, potentially, the world. She had learned nothing from her failures, and she continued to let everybody down. But no longer, not this time, she vowed.

Katrina dumped the contents of the mixing bowl onto the coffee table and arranged them in an orderly fashion. She immediately began measuring out ingredients by sight, relying on her years of expert witchcraft and Alfred's mentoring to guide her to the precise mixture. Using her fingers as a whisk, she stirred vigorously when Abbie reentered the cabin with the book in hand.

Katrina recognized the book immediately. On its front cover was an eye emblazoned in gold leaf, well-faded over the parade of centuries but still there. Alfred had spent hours with her pouring over its mysterious pages and demonstrating to her how to coax powerful white magic from his ancestors' musings. He was in that book—he was that book.

"Open it," Katrina instructed. Abbie didn't hesitate. She flipped open the cover, and right away Katrina ordered her to stop. She took a fingerful of the salve she had just created and smeared a rough approximation of the golden eye onto the inside of the cover. When it was done, she took her entire hand and ran her fingers downward through it in a quick, smooth swipe, essentially destroying the eye she had just drawn.

Abbie waited for a moment, glanced back to Crane, and then to Katrina. "That it?"

"Now we must rub this balm over his infection. It should draw out the poisons and hopefully restore him to his usual self."

"Hopefully?" Abbie said dubiously as she cast a worried look at Ichabod.

Katrina scooped her hand into the sloppy mess and piled it on to her husband's chest, rubbing it generously over every blackened ridge and valley. She nodded toward the bowl and then toward Ichabod's face, and Abbie followed the silent instruction.

Abbie dipped her fingers into the slurry, the herbed amalgamation stinging her skin at first touch, and then brought her hands to Ichabod's mottled visage. She watched him momentarily as he ground his teeth and bucked under Katrina's ministrations on his abdomen when, without warning, a small voice inside her whispered, "He's going to die here. He's going to leave you all alone."

In an instant, terrified Abbie was appeared, as transparent as glass. The lieutenant tried to hide that side, stuff her back down into the fathomless depths where she belonged, but the thought of losing her partner—her best friend—made her hands tremble, and Abbie's hands never trembled. It was a trait she boasted about, that others on the police force admired her for. Stalwart Abbie, dependable Abbie. But not today, not now.

She dropped her hands to Ichabod's face and cupped it, herbs and oil tickling down his skin. She held him like that until she felt his inner strength radiate through her, until she felt her hands steady. All at once, she remembered what she was supposed to be doing, and she began rubbing the ointment across his face in earnest. She dampened her hands again, this time wiping across his speckled brow and then running her middle finger down the bridge of his nose. She caressed his face with her oiled hands, tracing parentheses around his cheeks and under his jaw line. His scruffy beard scratched her fingers, a reminder that the man she knew was still there even under this grotesque hex.

"My task is completed. I am running out in search of an herb to revive him," Katrina said over her shoulder as she headed toward the door. "Be sure to apply the salve everywhere on his face, Miss Mills. I shall be but a moment."

Abbie startled at the sound of Katrina's voice. She had forgotten that anyone else was there, and before she even had a chance to respond, the witch was gone. Abbie looked back at Ichabod's face, now thoroughly saturated with the mixture. His skin already looked vastly improved. The wicked abscesses gradually faded into less noticeable blemishes, and the scaly texture of the marks had smoothed back to his normal skin.

As she surveyed his features, she realized the only place left to apply it was his lips. Abbie stared at them, wondering if she should even be the one doing this, touching him like this. It felt… weird. They were close, inseparable she liked to think, but this sort of touch was, well, intimate. Crane would call it "imprudent." But damn it all to hell, this was life or death, and he wasn't Snow White and she sure as hell wasn't Prince Charming. They could always come back from this, especially if he didn't know. Abbie was great at keeping secrets.

Her hand hovered over his lips before she finally convinced herself that it was really okay—Katrina had told her to do it after all. She ran her hand once over just enough to coat them thickly with the salve, and then another pass with her thumb, this time slowly, more deliberately. The oil seeped between the part in his lips, into the dark recesses of his mouth, and abruptly, Ichabod's eyes flew open and found someone whom he had not seen in a long time—vulnerable Abbie. This version she did not try to hide, not with him.

Both were acutely aware that her thumb still pressed gently at the corner of his lips. Neither moved—Ichabod didn't have the strength to and Abbie didn't have the presence of mind in the face of his unceasing gaze.

"Hey there," she said softly with a relieved smile.

"Hello, Lieutenant."

His words brushed against her thumb like a kiss, and the sensation gave both of them a start. Abbie blinked several times and finally remembered to move her hand, clenching it tight enough to crack her knuckles before rubbing it furiously against her pant leg.

"Welcome back," she greeted in a voice that was much more her own. Slowly, her controlled side reemerged and gave her much needed strength.

Ichabod sucked on his bottom lip, looked questioningly down the bridge of his nose, and then gradually raised his right hand to touch his furrowed his brow and said, "What is this noisome sludge that plasters my body? Good Lord, it's even on my eyelids."

"It was either that or look like an overcooked turkey."

Ichabod shrugged his mouth, and he immediately wiped his fingers back across his skin. Abbie grinned at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she released all of her tension into giddy relief.

The front door blew open, and they both looked up to see Katrina emerge carrying a small bundle of greenery. When she spied her husband awake and alert, she dropped the herbs and hurried to his side. "You're awake, thank the heavens!" She embraced her husband tightly in spite of the sticky concoction that coated him head to toe.

As the lovers held each other for a few long moments, that sinking feeling of unwelcome slowly crept in, like an evening fog across the Hudson. Lieutenant Grace Abigail Mills was a lot of things, but she would not be a third wheel. She absentmindedly took on the task of cleaning up the ingredients that they had left strewn about the floor. She would leave the explanations to Katrina while she stood at the sink, washing dishes and pretending not to care that she had been demoted.

Hands deep in bubbles and scalding water, Abbie tried in vain to replace her irritation with gratitude. Without Katrina, she reminded herself, she may not have been able to cure Crane in time to save his life. Of course, retorted her snarkier side, without Katrina, there would have been no stupid book to possess Crane in the first place.

_Stow it, Lieutenant_, she admonished herself, but it was too late.

Abbie was familiar enough with the hot, jagged tendrils encircling her heart to call it what it was: jealousy. Up until a few months ago, it would have been Abbie taking charge, Abbie fixing things, Abbie recounting events. Things were different with Jenny and Irving. Abbie always knew her own role when they were around. They were key to their cause, always there when the duo needed their help, but they also knew when it was time to go home, to do their own things. Even Hawley had his own place, even if they hadn't quite figured out how he fit in yet.

That was just it, Abbie realized with bitterness. Everyone here now, including Crane, had lives outside of the fight, people with whom they shared their time or affections. Abbie had an empty apartment. At the end of the day, it had once been Abbie and Crane. Now it was Crane and Katrina. And Abbie. A separate sentence, a separate thought with a big, fat insurmountable period dividing the two.

And, of course, there was that awfully inconvenient fact her hand still tingled from the way his lips moved across it, despite the fact that she was practically drowning it under a stream of superheated water—whatever idiocy that was all about.

Now here she was, one of two prophesized Witnesses, relegated to dishwasher. She supposed it was inevitable. When a man had a choice between his wife and his best friend, the decision was rather obvious, and Abbie couldn't fault Ichabod for it. Positions reversed, she'd probably do the same. So she suffered it silently because humanity was worth it—Crane was worth it. What was a little stupid jealousy when the fate of the world hung in the balance? If Abbie could thwart demons, ghosts, and Purgatory, she could surely stab out a few green eyes from a certain metaphorical monster.

God, she was so angsty, she had to roll her eyes at herself.

Still, Abbie heard her name from the couch and felt a ridiculous rush of excitement. So she wasn't totally forgotten. She found Katrina helping her husband to his feet. He stood, a bit wobbly at first as he regained his balance, and then slowly shuffled over to Abbie like an invalid. He covered his naked chest lazily with one arm, looking just a bit less like a Colonial purist than he would probably ever care to admit to his wife. Maybe she hadn't entirely lost the guy after all.

"Thank you for your assistance, Miss Mills," he said with a shallow bow, bits of dried ointment flaking off as his muscles creased. "As always, your friendship remains the most steadfast and essential in my life. I wish I could tarry a little longer, but I hope you won't begrudge me a long, hot shower after tonight's events."

She quirked one sassy eyebrow at her friend. "Nah, you earned it, Crane. Hopefully Knapp's book is now booby-trap free, and we can go through it tomorrow. It's been hiding in a wall for months, so don't push yourself. I'll see you both in the morning, and we'll tackle it as a team."

After Katrina offered her own platitudes, Abbie headed out into the cool night air, grateful for chance to at last be any version of Abbie she wanted to be, without reproach or censure. Right now, she wanted to be insecure Abbie, and she planned on indulging that side with a heavy dose of mournful Billie Holliday and a pint of Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Therapy.

* * *

><p>Across the snaking river, in a ramshackle manse on an overgrown tract of land, a withering hand hovered over its own small pebble, now neatly stopped on a map on top of a patch of wilderness just outside of Sleepy Hollow proper. Nestled in that copse of trees, he knew he would find a quaint little cabin from his recent memory.<p>

"So, they have the warlock's book," he bellowed into the cavernous drawing room. "Let's just see what they intend to do with it, shall we?" He slammed his gnarled fist against the table, and a great cacophony of wings answered back as a grumbling murder of crows took flight from the roof top into the deep cover of endless night.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **_Just wanted to extend a quick thank you to all of you lovely readers out there for the reviews and follows. Now that we're at the mid-season break, I hope to update frequently enough to finish before the January return and quench my incessant need for more SH. Just remember, the events in this story are still set before "Heartless," so I guess this is now officially "AU" of sorts. Enjoy!_

**Chapter Four**

Morning broke over Sleepy Hollow just as it had 250 years ago. Moloch himself could rise today and wipe humanity from the Earth, and the oblivious sun would still creep steadily heavenward without sparing a moment for humanity's plight. Yet as always, that damned yellow orb found the one hole in the drawn curtains to pierce Ichabod right in the eye with the same expert marksmanship his covey-hunting father possessed.

He turned his head toward Katrina to dodge the determined beam of light and found his wife sleeping soundly, the swell of her breast rising and falling with the same undulating rhythm of ocean waves. Her slumbering face was soft with peace, her hair fanned out around her like a red halo. Ichabod wanted to stroke her cheek, her brow, the gentle curve of her neck, until his eyes alighted on her pendant—Abraham's gift that allowed her to see the man underneath the monster.

A flare of anger blossomed in his chest, burning slow and hot. Katrina had lived with Ichabod for over a week now, sharing his bed and whiling away most minutes by his side. She professed to love him with her whole being, and he had always believed her, but the necklace troubled him, more than it would have in his old life, the life before her many lies had been exposed to him. If her love was as deep as it ever had been, why did she to continue to wear a necklace from her former betrothed? She even slept in the accursed thing. The longer he spiraled down into the stone's cool green depths, the more he realized that his anger spawned not from jealousy, but from distrust.

Despite how bone-weary he was, sleep had now firmly slipped from Ichabod's grasp, and in lieu of wallowing in self-doubt any longer, he urged himself out of bed, careful not to disturb Katrina. After tossing his clothes on haphazardly, he padded barefoot into the kitchen to find some artificial stimulation. Ichabod popped a tiny plastic cup of flavored coffee into the Keurig machine Abbie had surprised him with a few weeks ago. Just another delight in the long list of 21st Century conveniences: single serve coffee made to order.

As he listened to the soft hiss of the brew, he eased open the kitchen window, breathed in the damp, cool air, and tried to empty his mind. It was a fruitless task for a man with a photographic memory. Katrina's infernal necklace bobbed mockingly before his eyes, and his annoyance burned again as hot as the molten coffee spewing into his mug.

Ichabod steadied his breathing and found his train of thought had effortlessly switched tracks, this time hurtling irrevocably toward the memory of Abbie's fingers against his lips. The touch was imprudent and shocking and surprisingly memorable. What was more worrisome than anything else was his brain's insistent need to keep bringing it up. He had thought about it in the shower-how perverse! And again as he fell asleep-even more unwelcome! For something that shouldn't have mattered very much, it seemed to be of peculiar importance.

The dull beeps of the coffeemaker brought his mind sagely back to more trivial matters, and after donning a pair of whimsical fluffy slippers Miss Jenny had insisted upon, Ichabod headed to the front porch with his mug on the promise of a new day. The moment he stepped foot outside, he noticed Abbie's SUV parked in the driveway, but a cursory scan revealed she was nowhere in sight. Momentary panic set in as he couldn't be sure she had even made it home last night. He approached the vehicle and laid one hand on its hood to find it was still slightly warm. Though comforted to learn she had arrived here recently, there was still no sign of her and his anxiety persisted.

Scouring the ground with his keen tracker eyes, Ichabod followed a sloppy foot trail into underbrush edging the property line. The person who had left the footfalls didn't appear to have been in any great hurry, but Ichabod remained on his guard just the same. He may as well have been a stampeding elephant for all the noise he made clomping through the traitorous leaves. Eventually, the trail dumped at the rocky banks of the wending Pocantico River.

Under a saffron canopy of thirsty beech trees, the shallow viridian waters surged over moss-cloaked boulders and carried little leaf boats across lapping rapids. Algae billowed below the surface like knotted black hair, a whole sunken assembly of sirens beckoning for an errant footstep. The steady gurgle of the lazy current resounded throughout the thicket and made the arboreal cavern feel strangely intimate.

Straddling two slimy rocks was the lieutenant, her boots caked in grainy mud and her black leggings splattered with ghosts of a hundred water droplets. Her face basked in the young rays of daybreak, the strengthening light scattering a soft sheen across her brown skin. Ichabod noticed instantly that she wore a different out from yesterday's, this shirt with all buttons present and accounted for. He didn't bother to justify the relief he felt at the thought of her sleeping in her own bed on her own. It wasn't that he wanted Abbie to be alone, but neither did he relish the thought of her with some nameless, faceless lothario.

He sidled up alongside his fellow Witness, careful not to slip on slick moss in his completely impractical footwear. "Good morning, lieutenant."

"Morning," she responded with an impish grin as she glanced down at his slippers.

He cleared his throat, hoping to bring her attention to something that didn't make him look like a court jester. Damn, why hadn't he bothered to change into proper boots? "What brings you out here this early?"

She shrugged. "Couldn't sleep. I hope I didn't wake you."

"You did not. Sleep has eluded me as well."

She nodded. "Too much excitement for us to wind down, I guess, what with all the ancient spellbooks, impending Armageddon, and you looking like an overgrown salamander."

"Yes, I rather disliked that part."

"So did I." She paused and turned to face her partner.

Ethereal illumination filtered through the thinning leaves, setting Abbie in a makeshift spotlight. There was no mistaking the power this woman held; she wore her strength like a perfume, and it was intoxicating and more than a little intimidating. Abbie owned her destiny in a way that Ichabod worried he never could. In her, he saw himself reflected as the man he wanted to be—needed to be, for the sake of the world. Ichabod was in awe.

"I've been thinking, the reverend went to a lot of trouble to keep his book out of evil's hands. I've got to believe the keys to winning this war are inside it. From what Katrina told us about him, the guy was pretty much the Michael Jordan of the wizarding world."

"Ah, yes, the basketball man."

"Yeah, _the_ man. Untouchable. If Knapp is that legendary, then his book should hold magic like we've never seen. Think of it, Crane," she said, her voice infused with the rousing passion of a Puritan minister preaching fire-and-brimstone. "Now we have the book and a witch to cast the spells. We've never been this close, Crane. We can finally bring Moloch to his knees, I know it. I can feel it."

Abbie's voice thundered throughout the church of trees, and Ichabod could not look away. Her verve resonated within his very soul. Listening to her conviction, it was no wonder so many had been magnetized to her. She was a woman possessed by her singular purpose, no longer the wavering, skeptical lieutenant he had first encountered. At some point over the course of their crusade, Abbie had metamorphosed into a truly fearsome creature. Standing there beside the glinting river under a golden crown of beech, Ichabod swore an oath to himself that he would sacrifice anything to protect such a woman for the world could simply not exist without her.

"You all right?" she probed when she noticed his stare.

"Quite well, Lieutenant. Just admiring your zeal."

"I bet you say that to all the girls," Abbie joked.

"Only one," he assured solemnly.

Her smile slowly faded, and she returned her attention to the restless river, her veil of hair hiding her face. "Where's Katrina?"

Remembering his wife back in the cabin jarred him. Ichabod hadn't realized just how swept up he'd been in Abbie's presence, that he'd literally forgotten the rest of the world around him. A tinge of guilt shuddered through him until he recalled the reason he'd left their room. "Still sleeping. You know, this morning I noticed that she wears Abraham's necklace even to bed." He paused, eyes fixed on a yellow leaf sailing down the little rapids. "I'm not sure what to make of it."

Abbie cast a sidelong glance at him through her hair. "I talked to Jenny last night and told her you'd be calling her."

Ichabod raised a quizzical brow at the change in subject. Abbie was the best listener he had ever known, and she never rushed him through a thought, let alone cut him off. She was obliging and forthright and knew how to balance him when life sent him reeling. But even she had her limits. Only then did he realize he had forgotten their pact. Ichabod was so used to complete transparency between them that he had neglected to honor his partner's request for a moratorium on his marriage problems. Even he had to acknowledge that visiting Crane family issues on his fellow Witness was more than she needed to bear—they were, after all, his problems.

"Of course," he responded slowly. "I'll be sure to do that today."

There was more silence between them until Ichabod could bear it no longer. Though Ichabod was a private person by nature, he had no qualms sharing all of his thoughts and fears with Abigail. He had had enough secrets in his life that he would not suffer any unsaid thoughts between the two of them.

"Forgive me, Miss Mills," he started as he faced her fully. He wanted to reach for her hands, but he worried she would consider it an invasion of her space.

"For too long I have made things about myself, a consequence of my past bleeding over into our present. In doing so, I have forced you to play an unwarranted role as my family counselor, which you weathered with your usual aplomb, and though you are also my family, it was not fair of me to visit it upon you. I have neglected to consider how I must be making you feel and neglected to treat you as the indispensable friend that you are. All my empathy has been focused on Katrina without sparing any for you, and the injustice pains me. I have been an arrant buffoon, and I pray you will not hold it against me."

After a moment, she grinned at him. "Crane, it's no biggie. I'm here, and I'm always going to be here. Just remember that when you and your wife are cuddling on the couch next time." She bumped her shoulder teasingly against his as she brushed past him.

"You are an incomparable woman, Grace Abigail Mills."

"Keep that in mind when I send you a bill for my services." He cast her a scolding look, and they both managed a genuine laugh for the first time in a long time.

"Come on, let's head back. I am itching to open Knapp's book, and I don't think I can wait one more second."

Ichabod kept pace behind her as she headed up the trail in her usual determined fashion. "You know, in my day—"

"Uck!" she said dramatically, and Ichabod enjoyed a private smile. It felt wonderful being in sync with Abbie again; even their steps were in unison. This was what the world needed—what he needed—to be one with his fellow Witness.

As they crested a small hillock that opened to the edge of the cabin's driveway, they could see Katrina standing on the front porch in a haphazard robe, twisting something in her hands."Looks like she's ready to cast another location spell. Should have left her a note," Abbie tsked in a sing-song voice.

"You could have done me the same service, Lieutenant," Ichabod grumbled back. He waved his arm high above his head, resisting the urge to trot off to his wife's side. He was fresh off a promise to Miss Mills that he planned to make damn sure he would keep.

Though Katrina greeted the pair on their arrival, Ichabod could not help but notice the odd look in her eyes as she studied the pair of them. "Getting an early start today, Miss Mills?"

"The Apocalypse waits for no one," she said as she breezed past Katrina into the cabin.

"Off on another morning walk?" Katrina asked her husband as he joined her on the porch.

His gazed followed the plait of her hair down to the ribbon that cinched it, and then across her décolletage to the green ornament that winked derisively at him in the morning light. "Something of the sort." Even Ichabod could hear how stiff his reply was.

Abbie stood in the middle of the great room brandishing her arms in a casual clap. "So… we ready to dive down the rabbit hole?"

"The what?" the witch asked.

"She means to peruse your Mr. Knapp's bequest," Ichabod translated.

Abbie offered a sarcastic frown. "Yes, because that's so much clearer."

Ichabod could tell by the unsure twist at the corner of Katrina's lips that she was confused and uncomfortable. Whatever morning she had planned for them clearly was no longer going to materialize. "I see," she said hesitantly.

Katrina walked over to the bookshelf, removed the magical tome from a stack of random occult books, and laid it in front of her on the kitchen table. Ichabod pulled out the neighboring chair and motioned for Abbie to take it, a fact which did not escape Katrina. Meanwhile, he leaned over the opposite side of the table and readied himself for what they were about to uncover. If Abbie's feelings were true, they were about to rend this war wide open.

They stared into the vigilant golden eye on the cover, and after last night, Ichabod half-expected it to come alive and blink at them. "Alfred once told me this was the eye of Heimdallr, the Norse god of his ancestral clan," Katrina said as she traced the faded outline with her finger. "Heimdallr possessed keen eyesight and foreknowledge, and he guarded over the rainbow bridge to Asgard to keep watch for Ragnarök, the Norse version of Armageddon."

"Unreal. His ancestors knew of their divine purpose from the beginning," Abbie mused, her eyes never leaving the cover.

Katrina nodded. "Much as yours did, Miss Mills. It is no small coincidence that Alfred's family revered a god such as Heimdallr. His abilities were imbued in their lineage as well."

The witch slowly peeled back the tattered leather cover, revealing the herbed charm she had drawn inside last night, and then flipped through the first few pages. All three held their breath as they waited to see if one of them would come down with another plague or something infinitely worse, but after a few minutes had passed without issue, Katrina continued to peruse the pages. The smell of eons wafted up from the book, a mixture of age and mildew and cauldron smoke. In the first dozen or so pages alone, Ichabod counted four different handwritings in three different languages, all belonging to long-forgotten comrades who had minded the fences for centuries in the same epic war.

The pages teemed with a cornucopia of delicate and high-level magic: summoning spells, divining rituals, binding hexes, healing tinctures, and apotropaic charms to ward off evil. But there was also more mundane information bound within the pages, like practical advice from grandparent to grandchild about how to select the most potent feverwort blossoms or the best way to cast chicken bones when practicing cleromancy. Some pages contained elaborate sketches of artifacts and hastily scrawled maps of strange places, while still others detailed the phases of the moon or seasonal plants.

Secreted away between two pages was a descendancy chart ending with Alfred Knapp. As Katrina smoothed out the folds of the yellowed linen paper, her finger circled his name and then followed his illustrious line back as far as it would go to the 1200s. Some names tickled her memory with their familiarity, great witches and warlocks who had stalwartly upheld the thin veil between Earth and Hell. It was no wonder, with a legacy like his, that Alfred had been the most powerful warlock she had ever met. Even Henry would tremble before such formidable sorcery.

Outside, the sun had reached its zenith, warming the forest floor and welcoming hungry critters out to play. A crow cawed from a lightning-emblazoned branch in a nearby tulip tree. A trio of hungry squirrels bounded across the crunchy detritus as they stocked up for the impending winter. A mindless stink bug thunked repetitively against the kitchen window.

Despite being immersed in their most important find yet of their seven-year quest, even the team was no longer immune to the languor of a beautiful fall day. They passed through a few more pages, with Katrina continuing to narrate the meanings for the spells, before Abbie had to come up for air. She slumped back into her chair and sighed in disbelief. "This is unreal. How have I managed to spend my whole life in Sleepy Hollow and never have any idea that the Reverend was Albus freaking Dumbledore?"

The Cranes' collective mind was too fried with the influx of knowledge to bother asking for an elucidation. "Agreed," Ichabod said, "there is much to take in."

"We've been at this all morning, and we're not even halfway through this thing. This book is literally an Idiot's Guide to Stopping the Apocalypse, but there's no way to tell what spells will be most useful. We need to take a break and digest what we've just discovered. In the meantime, I'm going to call in the cavalry, and hopefully she'll bring sandwiches."

While Abbie called her sister, Katrina decided to take a turn around the room, and her husband joined her. "This must be very hard on you," he said as he surveyed her somber appearance.

"Since I returned from Purgatory, I confess I had not had much time to think on my past. When I think of how little I had remembered Alfred, I feel a tremendous sense of guilt. I had never considered his fate, let alone the fate of many other of my friends, and yet these 250 years he remained in Sleepy Hollow, fighting our fight in solitary. It pains me to think how much he suffered all those years with no friend in which to safely confide. And now that we have his book, seeing his family tree with no family left in which to entrust it, feels like a grave injustice. Simply reading something so personal to him feels like an invasion, but I have to believe he would have entrusted it to our cause."

Ichabod's expression softened as he watched his wife verbally flog herself for things that were out of her control. He caught her gaze in his and held it fast. "From the little I have gleaned from our conversations about your Mr. Knapp, I have no doubt that he intended the book for you."

The couple exchanged smiles before Abbie interjected. "Jenny's on her way. You two want some alone time?"

"No, Lieutenant, please stay," Ichabod insisted, the memories of his promise resurfacing anew.

Almost immediately, an awkward silence descended on the three. They looked at each other, not sure what to talk about if it wasn't about the end of days. Finally, Abbie offered a quick laugh to cut the tension and said, "Wish I had some music right about now. It's way too quiet."

Ichabod bounced excitedly on the balls of his feet. "Not to be a braggart, but in my day, I had quite the reputation as a maestro of the harpsichord."

"It's true," Katrina conceded.

Abbie raised her eyebrows. "Sorry, fresh out of those. Would you settle for some Harry Belafonte?"

"At your pleasure, Lieutenant."

Abbie smirked and dug through her bag until she found her iPod and a set of portable speakers. As the dulcet, whimsical sounds of calypso permeated the cabin, Abbie trained her eyes on the 18th Century couple and waited for their reaction. At first, there was a lot of eyebrow-raising, lip-pursing, and general confusion as Katrina tried to rationalize how someone could perform a reel to the tune, but finally, it was unmistakable—Ichabod's toe-tapping.

"I knew it," the lieutenant trumpeted. "Even Colonists aren't immune to calypso. Just let it go, Cranes, and move with the music." Abbie started swaying her shoulders and hips in time with the drums, and gradually Ichabod's whole leg started keeping tempo. As the last holdout, Katrina caved and began chastely clapping her hands together to the melody.

For three and a half minutes, inhibitions were abandoned, trust issues were forgotten, and bright Caribbean melodies banished insecurities to the shadows. They were united by song and swept away by levity, a helter-skelter band of misfits who had finally found one moment in time when they were more than just instruments to prevent the coming Apocalypse.

And like most joyful moments, it was gone all too quickly.

**A/N**: _Just in case you were wondering, I'd sort of pictured Harry's "Jump in the Line" here, but you really can't go wrong with any Belafonte. Enjoy your fun while you can, my pretty Sleepyheads, because it's about to get real…_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Jenny Mills entered the cabin a few minutes later to discover the first real sign of the coming Apocalypse: all three members of Team Witness were laughing and—was that dancing?

"I gotta say, Crane, you're pretty light on your feet," Abbie commended.

"Just as I asserted, Lieutenant. Now if only you'd show me to a harpsichord."

"What on earth is going on in here?" Jenny interrupted, bewildered by the sight of her sister clapping as Crane twirled with his wife to, of all things, "Coconut Woman".

"Oh, Miss Jenny," Katrina said, startled, and instantly dropped Ichabod's hands. Her cheeks were flushed from exertion and a blossom of embarrassment. "We were dancing."

"Yeah, I can see that. And what do you call that little diddy?" she asked, mimicking their whirlybird choreography with her finger.

Ichabod tipped his head toward the other Mills sister in greeting. "The Virginia Reel, madam. Miss Mills challenged us to perform one of our contemporary dances to her calypso music, and I rarely, if ever, turn down a bet."

Katrina nodded in reluctant agreement. "Luckily for our accounts, my husband is usually right about them."

"Crane, right about something? Never," Abbie teased, and he shot her a snide look.

Jenny did another double-take at the now-smiling trio, who had of late been snarling at each other over—well—everything. She raised her eyebrow. "Have you all been possessed?"

"Only by the mellifluous voice of Mr. Belafonte," Ichabod said as he bowed curtly to his wife to finish off their dance.

Jenny deposited a bag of sandwiches on the kitchen table and took an informal seat on the edge. She crossed her arms and scowled. "Whatever's got you all on each other's good sides, let's make the most of it. Now, where's this grimoire I've been hearing so much about?"

Abbie motioned for her sister to turn around, and there she found the book resting innocently on the table as though it were merely a dictionary or a phone book, not a potential weapon in the End of Days. Jenny quickly paged through it, watching the pages unfold like a flip book on the history of magic. Excitement tingled throughout her body, the weight of the discovery's value impressed on her fingers. If only Corbin could have lived to see this…

Jenny smiled triumphantly at her sister, who winked back at her. It was a short, casual exchange, but, damn, did it hearten her. Having these brief, happy moments with her sister again, well, it made everything, even those years of torture and isolation, feel worth it.

Jenny switched gears and put the grimoire back down. "I brought the rest of the stuff you wanted, Abs, but I need help carrying it in."

"Crane'll help," Abbie volunteered and nudged her head toward the door. Ichabod read her message clearly and obediently followed the other Mills sister outside.

They had barely shut the front door before Jenny opened the flood gates. "Okay, we both know Abbie had an ulterior motive sending you out here to do her job, so spill."

"Astute as ever, Miss Jenny. Clearly a family trait," Ichabod began tentatively. "As you well know, your sister and I are partners and confidantes, and though I trust her with everything, I'm afraid one topic in particular has become rather burdensome. The lieutenant had hoped that perhaps you could offer more insight into it."

Jenny shrugged noncommittally. "I'll do what I can, but let me give you a word of warning, Crane: I don't have my sister's tact or her patience. You might not like what I have to say or how I say it."

"Your attention and complete transparency are all I request."

"Good, 'cause I don't do nice or easy."

He nodded. "Understood."

"Fire away, time traveler."

Jenny leaned against her SUV, propping one leg up against the wheel well, and folded her arms across her chest as she listened to Ichabod recap the trials and tribulations of his fraught marriage. Through Ichabod's recounting, Jenny did her best to be cool, but there was no way to completely squelch her trademark snark. A couple of times she _had_ to interject a "She did what?" or an "Oh, hell no." As Ichabod concluded his litany of marital issues, he was met with one perfectly plucked brow arched high.

"For a couple of Colonials, you two have mastered the art of the soap opera."

He'd ignored the obvious, if unintelligible, barb and surged forward. "You may deflect if you like, but I am well-aware that you and your sister are navigating through your own similar issues. I was genuinely hoping you could share your advice on how to overcome them."

Things had abruptly become very personal. In an instant, Jenny was back in Tarrytown Psych, choking down horse tranquilizers and seething in a quiet rage on her sagging cot. All those years of bitter hope and crushing disappointment, until at last, Abbie, in large part thanks to Crane, had reconciled with her sister and willingly ate her humble pie. She owed the man something at least.

Jenny nodded sheepishly.

"How does one endeavor to earn back the trust that has been lost?" Ichabod persisted.

She pursed her lips. "I think a better question is do you even want to forgive her?"

"And what manner of question is that?" he said indignantly.

"An honest one." He paused for a moment to unruffle his feathers, and Jenny smirked to herself. Team Witness was so easy to rile. "There's no point in moving forward if there are issues you'll never get over."

Jenny was just self-aware enough to feel a tinge of regret as she recalled several times she had lorded Abbie's abandonment over her, even after she had forgiven her. But that's what sisters were for, right? At least, that's what she told herself.

"Katrina is my wife," Ichabod responded. "I promised to love her for eternity."

"And didn't she promise to be honest and faithful with you?"

"She has never been unfaithful."

"I think you know my meaning. And I'm just saying, promises can be broken. If all your marriage is resting on is your promise, that's not much of a foundation to build on."

The truth of her words stung as sharply as lemon in a wound. When Ichabod finally gathered his senses, he said, "You, above anyone else, Miss Jenny, are aware of what a broken promise, spoken or otherwise, can do to two people. I cannot walk away from an oath I swore before God himself simply because Katrina kept a few things from me."

"If her lies aren't that big of a deal, then why are we even talking about them?" He gave no answer. "I get it, Crane, I really do—from all sides. Let me tell you a story. A few years back, Corbin dispatched me to Somalia to search for an ancient relic. In order to get it, I had to infiltrate the extremist militant group that possessed it. For five months, I was in deep cover, wrapped up in al-Shabaab's kidnappings, piracy, and intimidation. It was terrible and dangerous and unbelievably lonely.

"Every night I laid in bed and repeated my cover over and over to myself until it was a part of me, like breathing, because one slip up, and you're gone—bullet to the brain and tossed in the Indian Ocean. I made memories for myself that weren't mine, but they felt like mine. I could smell and taste and touch those stories like I had lived them. I still can. You know what my mama's _lahoh _tastes like, because I do—spongy and a little sweet. But you know what? She never actually made it. I just convinced myself she did. It's like I've lived two lives, but which one was the real me?"

"How did you find your way back?" he asked, entranced.

"I met Khaalid. He was an al-Shabaab soldier, committed to their cause. There was just something about him. Handsome, fierce, eyes like fire. Two weeks in, and I was head-over-heels. When I finally had the chance to steal the relic, I couldn't. I froze. I thought about Khaalid, about the _lahoh _that I'd imagined I'd had, thought about the family I had invented and how they seemed realer than the sister who'd abandoned me, and I hesitated. I stood there with my hand on the stone, staring off into space like the mental patient I was, and they caught me.

"They tied me to a chair and tasked Khaalid with the responsibility of killing me. In that moment, I remembered Corbin's voice and how he expected me to come back home, how he'd hugged me tightly before I left, and it all came back. I tried to convince Khaalid to leave with me, but turns out the woman he loved wasn't me, it was my alter ego, the one who never actually existed. He put the barrel to my temple and pulled the trigger. But the gun jammed. I freed myself, got the relic and the gun."

Jenny stopped, and Ichabod gently prodded, "And then what happened?"

"And that time the gun didn't jam." She let the implication hang in the air as her eyes glazed over with her dark memories. She stared off into the distance, past the trees, over the hills, across the wide blue ocean, until suddenly, she was back in the dusty streets of Mogadishu.

Ichabod laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and the effect was like ballast, righting her back in the here and now. "It pains me deeply to hear how this war has caused you such suffering for so long," he began, "but Katrina is not the enemy. She has ever been on our side."

"I know that, Crane. All I'm trying to say is that when you're a spy, you have to live a lie, and those lies become your truths. I know, I've lived it. It can be damn hard to remember when to stop them. It's hard enough to remember who to trust, let alone remember who you really are. I'm not saying her love for you is a lie. I am saying she may not remember when to stop lying, even to herself."

Silence hung in the air, winding persistently around them like cat circling their legs. Eventually, Ichabod emerged on the other side of his reverie and said softly, "You've given me a great deal to consider."

Jenny shrugged one shoulder with just a hint of playful smugness. "Let me give you a little bit more, old timer. If you expect Katrina to earn your trust back, you'd better figure out what you really want first. She could try 'til the cows come home, but if you don't know what you're looking for, well, the whole thing's kind of pointless, isn't it?"

"So it would seem," he said slowly, wandering back off into his own thoughts.

"Hey, hey!" she said as she snapped her fingers in front of his face. "Don't think you're getting out of this heavy-lifting so easy."

He smiled. "I wouldn't dream of it, madam."

* * *

><p>Without Ichabod's anchoring presence, the cabin felt oddly unmoored, like Abbie and Katrina were in two different dinghies drifting gradually apart on opposing currents. Though Abbie had never been able to pinpoint the source of their tension, she knew it centered around her uncertainty of the woman's purpose. Abbie was convinced enough that the witch was on their side of righteousness; what she questioned was how firmly she was planted there.<p>

Katrina was tender-hearted and far too emotionally involved to count on to sacrifice everything for the greater good of humanity, especially when it came to one Henry Parrish. Maybe Abbie was too jaded from her own history or maybe she was naturally clear-sighted, but she was duty-bound to protect humanity, no matter the cost to herself or those she held dear. Whatever the case, after spending a lifetime wallowing in fear, she would never again let her emotions rule her, and she knew she could not say the same for Katrina.

So there they stood like the two faces of Janus, one looking forward and one looking back, both so different and yet somehow connected by the one person neither could exist without. They stared awkwardly at one another, their little bit of levity already evaporated, until Abbie offered her a half-hearted grin that cut the tension.

"I guess we could study the grimoire while we eat?" she proposed with a shrug. Katrina agreed and joined her at the table.

As they unwrapped their lunches, Katrina opened the book where they left off and resumed her explanations of the different incantations she found within. While Abbie greedily stuffed herself, Katrina's soft voice filled the dead air with narration. Twice the lieutenant stopped her to bookmark pages with spells that warranted further discussion, but other than that, the two didn't have much to say to one another.

The further back they ventured into the book, the more contemporary its authors became, until at last, near the very end, Katrina encountered Alfred's own curling elegance. After years of intense tutelage, his doodling in the margins of her spell book, and countless letters delivered by ravens, she could recognize his marks anywhere. His handwriting mirrored him exactly: neat and ceaseless strokes written without so much as an ink blot of hesitation. Even the incantations he had created in his early career were transcribed with the confidence of a master warlock.

Abbie noticed Katrina had stopped reading. She was staring hard down at the page, a shimmering veil of unshed tears clouding her eyes. "Is that Alfred's handwriting?" the lieutenant asked.

"It is."

Katrina dragged her fingertips across the loops and whorls, feeling the shallow valleys of his impression still lingering in the page. She could hear the scratch of his quill across the linen paper and that soft double-tap with which he ended every sentence.

As Abbie watched the grief that poured out of her companion, she realized at last that maybe something more united them than just a love for Crane and hatred for Moloch. Katrina, too, had lost a mentor and a father-figure, a man who had shaped her very existence as if from clay. She felt Alfred's loss as keenly as Abbie felt Corbin's.

Abbie tentatively reached out and encircled Katrina's forearm. The redhead looked up in surprise, and Abbie met her gaze with sympathy. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you, Miss Mills." Katrina gathered strength from the lieutenant's compelling connection and finally dammed the waterfall that threatened to unleash. "Your steadfast friendship in these dark times means everything to us."

Slowly, her hand retreated from Katrina. There it was, the ubiquitous "us" sized for two, Abbie's daily reminder that she was unlucky number three. Pre-Witness Abbie would have ignored the uncomfortable feeling until she could find an excuse to sever ties and move on. But not now, never again. She was transforming into an indomitable spirit before whom even Moloch would tremble, and running would no longer be her MO. Nothing could keep Abbie from her destiny—she wouldn't let it.

"I have to something I need to say, and I know it's going to make things unbelievably awkward, but I can't dance around it any longer because it's starting to eat me alive." Katrina did not respond, but she did give her companion her full attention. It didn't really make things any easier, but at least Abbie knew she was being heard.

"I know things have been kind of... strained between us since you got here, and I've been trying to figure out why that is. Before you showed up, I thought I had this all figured out—Crane and me versus the Apocalypse. For all the complications, it was simple, the first time I can remember something being really simple, you know?

"My whole life I've never felt safe, not with my mother, not with Corbin, not on my own. It took a biblical prophecy to show me my role in this world, and I've embraced it like the gift it is. It sounds completely insane, but in spite of daily peril, being a Witness with Crane? That's the safest I've ever felt.

"But you're here now, and things are different. And that's okay, but it feels like I'm losing my relevance. Where do I fit in here? Am I who I thought I was? Crazy, I know, and I'm probably overthinking things like always, but the way I see it, we're all stuck with each other for the next few years, so we need to find a way to make this work, for better or worse," she added with a bitter smile.

Katrina gaped at her, obviously unprepared for the emotional onslaught that had just assaulted her. Abbie felt a twinge of guilt for dumping all of her issues on a woman who was already encumbered by many of her own, but there was nothing to do about it now but wait for Katrina's response.

Ichabod and Jenny chose that moment to stampede through the front door bearing armfuls of various equipment: a laptop, a scanner, a camera, and stacks of Corbin's files from the old armory. They dumped the materials onto the table, and Jenny looked to Abbie for her approval. A quick glance at her sister's face and Jenny could tell they had interrupted an important moment, yet Ichabod remained oblivious as he continued to prattle on about more 21st Century conveniences.

"Honestly, how have we continued to survive—nay, thrive—as a species in the face of such malingering?"

"What's he ranting about now?" asked Abbie.

"Grandpa here flew off the handle because my car has a rearview camera."

Abbie and Jenny shared a sisterly roll of the eyes, but Ichabod remained undeterred. "Have we devolved to the point where we are unable turn around and look for ourselves using this God-given invention called a neck? This generation's indolence knows no bounds. What's next—a machine that chews your food for you?"

"Actually—"

"Don't," he interjected and held up a hand, "I don't even want to know."

"Thanks for bringing all this stuff, Jenny," Abbie said as she refocused her partner and saved them from another half-hour long lecture about America's present slothfulness. She circled the table and began sifting through the goodies, setting up a work station much like she had in the armory. She connected the scanner to the laptop and fanned out some of Corbin's most relevant files across the workspace.

Noticing the quizzical looks she was getting from Ichabod, Jenny said, "Abbie thought it would be a good idea to scan the book."

"Just in case some Hessians or other psycho doomsdayers manage to steal the real thing. Then Crane doesn't have to recreate the whole thing from memory."

"Been down that road too many times," Jenny confirmed.

"Excellent idea, Lieutenant. And I presume Corbin's files are for cross-referencing purposes?"

She shrugged. "Might help fill in the holes or, at the very least, help us figure out how Reverend Knapp fit into the present day war. There was some connection between the two, and I want to figure out what it was."

As the trio talked logistics, Abbie noticed a key voice missing. She glanced across the kitchenette and found Katrina with her head hung low over the grimoire. The witch hadn't said a word since the other pair had walked in, and no one, including her husband, had seemed to notice. In one fell swoop, Abbie had turned the woman into her own forth wheel. Guilt rippled through her, not because of her confession—no, she had meant every word of it—but because of her timing. Katrina had barely begun to grieve for her friend, and Abbie had already saddled her with her own baggage. Even worse, she had given her no time to respond or discuss. The air was pregnant with their unfinished business, and she regretted it deeply.

As Abbie turned toward the redhead, Katrina suddenly snapped the book shut and rested her hand protectively over the cover. She looked up at the trio and said evenly, "I'm afraid I'm feeling rather out of sorts. Before we continue examining Alfred's book, may I beg a few hours of respite so that I might recover my wits? I fear I may be rather useless in my current state."

"Everything okay?" asked Jenny.

Katrina waved her hand dismissively. "I'm fine, truly. Perhaps I just feel a bit overtaxed from yesterday's castings. My full strength has yet to return, and I think I should lie down."

That was a lie, and Abbie knew it. Maybe Katrina was tired from her magic usage, but there was little doubt that Abbie's confession had factored in as well. And as the lieutenant sized up the witch's body language—her hand clenching the lip of the book, the tightening of her jaw, her averted eyes—the cop in Abbie could read something more, something Katrina was trying to secret away from them. No use ferretting it out now, especially when Ichabod was bound to be defensive.

Abbie nodded slowly and picked up a few choice files from Corbin's collection. "Sure, Jenny and I will finish our lunch in the armory. Give us a call when you're feeling better, okay?"

Katrina nodded as Ichabod put his arm around her shoulder to lead her to the bedroom—Alfred's book ever in hand.

* * *

><p>As soon as the Mills sisters had cleared out the house, Katrina shrugged off her husband's guiding hand and whirled around to face him. She presented Alfred's book to him, her eyes looking up imploringly.<p>

"Katrina, what is wrong?" Ichabod asked.

"Nothing," she affirmed. "My fatigue was a contrivance. I needed to speak with you alone, to show you what I've uncovered."

Ichabod's face telegraphed confusion and then, briefly, annoyance that his wife could not mistake. The fact that he wished his partner were still with them bothered Katrina more than she wanted to admit, but there was no time for such things now—not when their very future hung in the balance.

She pushed the book insistently toward him, flipping it open to the last written page for his perusal. "Ichabod, I beg you, look."

With a stern glance at his wife first, he then turned his attention to the page, but his mind could not comprehend what he was reading. He tried to read it again, but either distraction or disbelief clouded his understanding. He pushed the book back toward her. "I don't understand."

"Read it again." As he did, as realization broke over him as potently as the dawn had this morning, Katrina whispered, "Do you see, my love? We can return home, to our own time."

Somewhere outside, a crow released a noisy squawk and took to the blue sky.

**A/N:**_ Sorry for all the angst. Laying the groundwork because we're about to pick up some serious speed! _

_By the way, that's Harry Belafonte's "Coconut Woman" referenced here. It's a fast-paced calypso that would be hilarious to see adapted for a Colonial dance._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

The bedroom was adrift in the dark swell of night. Ichabod laid on their raft of a bed, swept out into the inky sea of shadows in search of sleep, but none came. He yearned for the escape of slumber as intensely as a castaway yearned for fresh water, and though his surroundings promised peace, his body was turbulent with emotion. Katrina, it seemed, had fallen into her most restful sleep since returning from Purgatory. He envied her peace of mind.

Home. She had promised him home. If Katrina hadn't qualified home as the 18th Century, Ichabod would not have understood her. He would have said matter-of-factly, "But we are home." Because the cabin was his home. This time, for all its complexities and idiosyncrasies, was home. Lieutenant Mills was home.

At some indecipherable point, Ichabod realized, he had ceased being a Luddite Colonial and had embraced the hubbub of the 21st Century. He was now a man just as comfortable driving a car and sending a text as he was riding a horse or penning an eloquent letter, and he could still build one hell of a fire from scratch.

Now that he thought about it, busying his hands sounded like the perfect thing to soothe his addled mind. A repetitive task mixed with a clear end goal could just be enough to let him keep his sanity.

Ichabod eased his weary bones out of bed, careful not to disturb Katrina's sleeping frame. He grabbed his cell phone and headed into the darkened living room and kneeled before the fireplace. Midnight's gentle, cool breath ebbed down the chimney and chilled the ashes in the hearth. As he stared into the charred, shadowy depths, he thought about how lonely and purposeless a fireplace was without a crackling fire, and he felt those feelings magnified inside him. He worked diligently to dispel the dreary feeling, stacking kindling and logs into a suitable pile before setting match to timber. As the fire blossomed, so did his sense of harmony. All things were right with the world when there was a warm fire to be enjoyed. Ichabod sank into the old couch and smiled at his handiwork. The pop of flames and hiss of damp wood strengthened him enough to do what he'd been avoiding all evening.

He held his phone at arm's length as though it were a dangerous animal, and perhaps it was about to become one. Steeling himself, his fingers tapped smoothly across the keyboard as he sent a text: "Are you still awake, Miss Mills?"

Almost instantly, his phone chirruped with Abbie's distinctive ringtone. He braced himself for the coming onslaught and answered the call. "What the hell, Crane?" Even her cursing was a relief, something that grounded him in the here and now. Abbie did not disappoint. "You blow me off all damn night, don't answer my texts, don't answer my calls. You're lucky it's not still the 1700s, or I'd drive over there to tar and feather your ass."

He wanted to retort that she wouldn't be driving so much as riding, but the mention of his past disheartened him again. With her scolding finished, concern took its place in his silence. Abbie sighed. "Everything all right there?"

"I can't sleep," he answered.

"Well, thanks to you, neither can I."

"I am sorry, Lieutenant. If you like, I shall conclude our conversation for this evening and wait to speak with you tomorrow."

"No," she responded heavily, "I'm already up. My mind's spinning."

"Then that makes two of us. We are quite a pair, are we not?"

"Always."

He paused for a minute, remembering their bond, which burned as fiercely as the blushing logs in the hearth. The warmth of their shared connection was indeed as potent as the fire. Ichabod, at last, felt his spirits rekindled. "I presume you have time to talk?" he asked carefully.

Abbie did not mistake his meaning, and he could practically see her raised brow. "Is that your way of asking if I have some random man over?"

"A formality of conversation, I assure you," he lied.

In truth, her fling the other day had bothered him more than he cared to admit. He had become quite acquainted with this century's lax views on sexuality, but thinking about his lieutenant that way—as not only a woman but a woman with desires—made him feel… As adept as Ichabod was with words, even he could not define the strange amalgam of confusion and uneasiness and possessiveness that churned within him.

He decided to redirect the conversation. "Did you to find anything in the sheriff's files?"

"No, but you didn't call to ask me that did you?"

She was always so clever. "I did not."

Abbie paused for a moment, evidently considering her words. When she responded, her tone was forthright and soft. "You know, in spite of what I said earlier about you and Katrina, you can still tell me anything."

"I have not forgotten, Lieutenant." Nor could he ever.

"Good. We're partners, Crane, we don't have secrets or boundaries."

He felt a pang in his chest, knowing he was withholding information, but he reminded himself he was waiting to discuss things with her in person. He owed her that and so much more.

"How was your talk with Jenny today?" she continued.

"Productive. She gave me much to contemplate."

"Jenny always does. Is that why you're still up?"

He shrugged, his eyes gazing into the undulating flames that burned away his confusion, leaving only one focus—the very thought he wished to avoid. "In part," he answered slowly.

"So there's something more."

Abbie paused, and Ichabod could tell she was battling against her inquisitive nature to be the patient friend he needed. He shook his head to himself as he marveled at the lieutenant's ceaseless loyalty. Somehow he, above all others, had been the lucky one upon which she bestowed it, despite the fact that he knew he was not worthy of such a treasure. His guilt metastasized until it overtook his body.

"You'll tell me in time though, won't you?" she asked finally.

"Yes, I will."

"Just tell me one thing," she began with that baiting voice of hers, "Katrina isn't pregnant again, is she?"

"I shall not dignify that with a response." He could hear her smile even through the other end of the line. His voice perked up a bit as he battled back the lengthening shadows in his mind. "Tonight, I require only a distraction."

Abbie offered a curt laugh. "So you called me?"

"You are very distracting."

He could practically hear her nose crinkling. "That a compliment or an insult?"

"Which would you prefer?"

"The honest answer."

"Your wit is diverting, your wisdom illuminating, your beauty beguiling. Package all of those traits into one five foot woman, and I'd say you have the consummate distraction." Ichabod paused to indulge in the sound of Abbie's sardonic laughter.

"If you weren't married, I'd accuse you were flirting with me, Ichabod Crane."

"Ah, but I am married."

"Which makes the flattery all the more transparent."

"In what way?" he asked.

"Did you forget I interrogate people for a living? Now who is distracting whom?"

Ichabod feigned offense. "Am I to be thusly labeled as a liar?"

"Nah, I'd just call you insane."

"And would you label any person who holds you in such esteem as delusional?"

"Probably. I'm a hot mess."

The lieutenant's dismissal of her own incomparable attributes startled him. She had so much faith in everyone else, yet so little in herself, and it astounded Ichabod. He adopted a more serious tone, one that he hoped might reach Abbie even across their distance, both real and imagined. "You belittle yourself so easily, but out of the millions of people on earth, God selected you as His instrument."

"Billions, Crane," she amended in an effort to shift the focus of their conversion. "Eight billion actually."

"Eight bil—really?" He saw through her ruse and would not allow her to deflect his compliments so easily. "Well, you serve to bolster my point. You are truly indispensable, Miss Mills. The Almighty would rather have one 'hot mess' protect humanity than an army of 'cold messes.' "

"I don't think the slang works that way, but I appreciate the sentiment. Now, let's stop talking about me. Since we're both exhausted but can't sleep, I propose we play a game."

"What sort of game could we play over the phone?" he wondered.

"I'd teach you Words with Friends, but it's late, and I don't feel like having my ass handed to me in the middle of the night."

"You modern folks, and your awkward and strangely visual turns of phrase."

"Why do you keep talking like you're not part of this century? I thought you were getting acclimated to this whole modern America thing."

He cleared his throat and realized he was telegraphing too much. Abbie was right. It was late, and they were exhausted. Best to savor the lighter side of their connection before things changed forever.

"Indeed. Please forgive me. I did not wish to hand you your ass."

He heard her scowl, and he laughed to himself. "Okay, maybe you're right," she conceded. "Modern slang sounds grossly inappropriate when you say it."

"So what do you propose in lieu of this Words with Friends game?"

"How about good ol' fashioned Truth or Dare? You get the choice between answering an awkward question or completing a challenge."

"Ah," he said with familiarity, "you mean Questions and Commands. Very well, I accept. Who shall play first?"

Abbie immediately took the reins. "Truth or dare, Crane?"

"I shall begin with a dare."

"Always a man of action," she remarked. "Are your shoes on?"

He glanced down at his knee-high socks. "I am in my stockinged feet."

"How scandalous," Abbie added dryly. "I dare you to put your feet on the couch."

For anyone else, this would have been a stupid dare, but Crane glanced worriedly between his feet and the couch cushions. The impropriety of putting his feet all over the good sheriff's cushions, despite the fact that Corbin was no longer around to chastise anyone, seemed egregious. His silence was telling. "Oh, just do it, Crane. Doesn't get much easier than putting your damned feet on the couch."

On her command, he stopped thinking and did as he was told. He wiggled his toes a little bit against the puffy cushions and felt a shiver of victory, however insignificant, and perhaps a tiny thrill race up his spine. A small smile played across his face.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" said the sassy voice on the other end of the line. It was as if she could see him as clearly as if she were sitting across from him.

"Perhaps," he said noncommittally. "Your turn, Lieutenant. What shall you have, a truth or a dare?"

"You know me, Crane."

"A dare then." He mused for a minute, trying to devise an appropriate rebuttal. "Very well, I dare you to cook a proper breakfast for yourself this morning. Nothing may be premade. No doughnut holes or cereals, lieutenant. Eggs, bacon, freshly cooked biscuits, pancakes. Anything you can dream up, as long as you prepare it yourself."

"Do I have to make the butter myself?" she added sarcastically.

"Considering my first dare was rather simplistic, I will return in kind. You may use butter churned by another this time, but do not expect to escape so lightly in the future."

"Yes, Captain!" she retorted. "Deal."

He knew her word was good and did not ask for proof of her living up to her end. Maybe it was because she never had time for domesticity, or maybe because he didn't really picture her as the stay-at-home type, but the thought of the lieutenant with a generous smudge of flour across her maple cheek suited him just fine. Ichabod smiled at the vision playing out across the canvas of flames.

"One more round," she proposed. "How brave are you, Crane?"

"I accept your challenge. Truth it is."

"Remember, a good truth always hurts a little," she prefaced, and instinctively he cringed. "If you had a chance to go back, you know, to the 18th Century, would you?"

Was the woman now psychic! He cursed to himself at his own folly, thinking he could escape his fateful dilemma. Every effort he made to outrun his decision proved utterly fruitless, and though Abbie did not yet know the weight of her own words, they cut deeply all the same. Everything was circling back, and Ichabod was powerless to pull himself out of the eddy of emotions. So he clung to the safety of avoidance one last time and prayed to God that it would last a few minutes longer.

"In the past, we were offered the chance to forfeit a question by accepting a dare in its stead. Does that option still stand?" Startled at his dodge, Abbie tentatively agreed on the condition that Ichabod had to complete the dare or face "a severe penalty." He'd suffer any number of demeaning acts just to avoid answering that question, he thought.

"Just so you know, I'm going much harder on you now. The next time you see Hawley, I dare you to not only compliment his manners, but to call him a gentleman and thank him for his help."

Ichabod gaped in horror and finished with a firm shake of his head. "This is really too much, Lieutenant."

"Oh, would you like to return to the original question then?"

He gritted his teeth and offered his assurance that he would comply. Now satisfied, Abbie mercifully moved on and it was Ichabod's turn to torture his partner. "Truth," she said confidently.

He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes as though she were sitting across from him. "Who was the suitor who so enticed you the other day?"

"Oh, come on!" she shouted. "You're not letting this go, are you?"

"Perhaps if I had but a name to attach to the libertine, I could."

They both doubted it, but there was no use rehashing it. "Luke," she admitted sheepishly.

Ichabod blinked once in confusion as his eidetic memory resumed in force. "Detective Morales?" he said quizzically. "But you are no longer betrothed."

"We never were, you know that. We weren't even that serious."

"Not serious? Miss Mills, you spent the evening with him."

"Too many Sam Adams. Turns out it's not always a good decision."

As usual, he missed the pop culture reference. "I fail to see how a Founding Father could provoke such a lapse in judgment."

"See, this is why I didn't tell you. I knew you'd get all Puritanical on me. It was one time, a dumb mistake we both regretted."

"I am sure the detective does not regret you."

Abbie ignored his comment as she plunged headfirst into her confession. "I was drunk and lonely, and Luke was there. We're familiar, you know? Sometimes I just want familiar because it's easy and everything and everyone else is so damn complicated." She paused to mull over the implications of what she was saying. "Anyway, I've been avoiding him and his twelve missed calls. Classic Abbie Mills: screw up and then avoid the consequences. Living the American dream."

"I'm sorry if I have been Puritanical. I did not mean to judge you so harshly or unfairly. I only ever want you to be happy, even if it is with the cocksure detective."

Abbie sighed. "Luke doesn't make me happy, Crane, and I'm pretty sure I only ever make him miserable. We're not right for each other. I'm happiest when I'm with—ooh, popcorn's done," she said as she tore into a bag she had just microwaved.

"You're eating popped corn at 2:13 in the morning?"

"Don't begrudge a girl her late night snack. How can you be married and not know that simple rule?"

Ichabod smiled, his eyelids finally weighted with blessed sleep. "Thank you for the diversion, Miss Mills. Our intercourse has been thoroughly illuminating," he said in a heavy voice.

"We really gotta get you a modern thesaurus."

He mumbled in agreement, and his last memory before drifting off was the sound of Abbie munching on a handful of popcorn.

* * *

><p>Ichabod woke on the couch the next morning to a pile of blackened embers and stiff joints. His feet were still firmly planted on the couch, and even he had to acknowledge that it was kind of comfortable after all.<p>

He found his phone wedged between his cheek and his ear. The lieutenant had long since hung up, but instead he found a text that said "Good night, sleepyhead," followed by a little yellow face with slits for eyes and a halo of z's. He felt bad about falling asleep in the middle of their conversation, but Abbie seemed to have taken it in stride. He hoped that she had fallen asleep not long after.

At that moment, his phone buzzed in his hand and another message came through. This time it was a picture of a breakfast complete with a sloppy pile of scrambled eggs, a mountain of bacon enough to feed a farmer and his family, a slightly burnt blanket of cubed potatoes, and one humongous biscuit that looked more like a child's haphazardly formed snowball. The note underneath said, "Dare complete. Tag, you're it." Ichabod chuckled as he sat up, picturing the petite Miss Mills devouring such an enormous breakfast with gusto. There was truly no one else like the lieutenant.

"Good morning, my darling," Katrina said, breaking his reverie. He glanced up and found his wife standing in the kitchen with an apron on. Her hair was braided loosely along her collar and her eyes danced with mirth. "Were you too cold last night?"

He looked over at the dead fire and then back to her. "I could not sleep, and I did not wish to wake you."

She wiped her cheek with the back of her powdery hand and resumed kneading biscuit dough. "I apologize if my ceaseless pounding woke you. It's been a little over two centuries since I last had the chance to cook for my husband, so I hope you will forgive me any culinary blunders. I fear these pans cook eggs a bit differently than the old cast iron ones we owned. With any luck, in a few days' time, I shall be able to cook for you as I once did."

Ichabod said nothing, his jovial mood now dispelled. He watched her work, her long arms rolling out the dough with practiced ease, her fingers pinching spices and showering the food with just the right amounts of seasoning. He had seen Katrina cook hundreds of times in their hearth and had marveled at her expertise at every turn, but in that moment, he knew he did not feel the same sense of wonder.

Katrina was as cheerful as she had been on their wedding day. Her smile knew no bounds, and her eyes sparkled with anticipation. Her soft voice resonated among the cabin's sturdy timbers as she sang "The Little Turtle Dove" to herself.

"It's good to hear you sing again," Ichabod said as he rose from the couch.

"Isn't it wonderful, my love? I feel free once more. Everything and everyone will soon be in its rightful place. Even these dreadful crows cannot sully my spirit." Katrina opened the kitchen window and half-heartedly shooed the gathering mass of birds. They did not stir, but she did not care. She returned to her cooking and resumed humming.

Try as he might, Ichabod could not embrace her gay mood. He sat down at the table, folded his hands and sucked in one deep, controlled breath. "Katrina, we need to discuss this."

"Hm?" she said, whirling around with egg-coated whisk dripping in her hands.

"I am not sure returning to the Revolution is the best course of action at this point in time," he said with careful measure.

She lowered the whisk, confusion evident on her face. "I don't understand. Any time is the perfect time to return. You understand as well as I do that the minute we return, the future is altered. There is no need to wait on anything, especially when the windows through which we can return are so infrequent."

"My love, Saturday is only two days hence, hardly enough time to consider such a significant matter."

This time confusion was replaced by consternation. "Ichabod." Her voice dropped a few octaves, which was as clear a signal as a lighthouse beacon of the troubled waters ahead. "I understand that you have built a life for yourself here, with the Mills sisters and Captain Irving, but this is not your home. I am, Jeremy is."

"And are you both not already here in the present?"

Katrina switched her tone and dropped her whisk onto the table and clasped his folded hands with her own, coating him in a fine powder of flour. "When we go back, we have a chance to right all of the wrongs done unto our son. We can save him—as well as the Mills sisters—a lifetime of pain."

He thought of Abbie again, of their bond ordained by Heaven itself, and how it felt heretical to sever it. As much as he loved Katrina, Ichabod knew he had been set upon this path for a purpose. But was this spell not also a gift from God? Or perhaps it was all a test of faith.

"Why did you send me forward in time only now to ask me to go back?"

"That was the will of fate, not my own. Your blood tie to Abraham dictated your awakening in this century. I would have revived you in our time had I not been imprisoned, you know that. Now fate is showing us the way home. We can undo the evil on this age by vanquishing it in our own."

His eyes fell to her hands. He wanted to feel reassured by his wife's words, but loose ends plagued him. "There are too many possibilities for the spell to go wrong. We should review it with a critical eye before—"

She released his hands and sat back in her chair. "And wait ten more years for the next window to appear?"

"This war is prophesied to last for seven. At least it will be over by then, and we can make a more considered decision."

Katrina's eyes hardened. Gone was the levity that sparkled within them moments ago. "And what if I am dead by then? What if Jeremy dies, and we can never go back and make it right?" Her words hung in the air until a crow's caw pierced through them.

"Why should I get redress when the rest of the world does not?" Ichabod said in a near whisper.

He felt her hands return to his and squeeze him tightly. Her voice was soft again, tinged with the gentle wisdom he had always valued. "Because you are a Witness, Ichabod, and when we do this, you will give the whole world a chance to reset itself. The spell is a gift, and we must take it. Think of our son, picture him as a boy on your lap waiting for you to regale him with stories of your day or as a small child pulling on your coat tails. We can raise him together with the centuries of love bottled up in our hearts. Is that not a world you want to live in?"

And it was, he knew that. Swept up in her fervor once again, he found himself nodding in agreement.

But there was always Abbie.

He stopped himself and stood up abruptly. "I haven't yet discussed it with my partner."

"Am I not your partner in life?" Katrina cut back, and he noticed the coldness in her tone. It was the first time he had heard it since the day they met, when she had reviled the Redcoat in front of her. It wounded him deeply to feel the distance between them growing ever steadily.

"Or course you are, my love," he reassured. "But our friends in this time have a right to know what we are planning as it involves all of us."

"You're right. I'm sorry. I did not mean to belittle your connection with Miss Mills. Without her strength, things may have turned out very differently for everyone. Which is why she deserves her own second chance at a normal life."

At last there was a point upon which they could both agree. Though his mind was still unsettled, he agreed to prepare for the spell should they decide to go through with it after all. "You will see the apothecary this morning for supplies?" she guided gently.

Apothecary, indeed, he thought as he pictured the brash Mr. Hawley. Suddenly, Abbie's dare seemed insignificant in the face of his new reason for a visit to the blackguard. "I don't suppose he's a man who wakes up before noon, but yes, I shall see him today."

Katrina finally dusted off her hands and handed him a neatly folded paper. "I've taken the liberty of drafting a list of ingredients. You may give that to him, but be sure he can obtain everything before Saturday."

They breakfasted peaceably together, Katrina recounting all the things she wished to do when they returned and Ichabod mentally rehearsing the speech he planned to give his partner when he revealed the news of their plans.

When it came time to leave, Ichabod kissed his wife goodbye and realized the moment he crossed the threshold, nothing would ever be the same again. As the door slammed behind him, the crows scattered to the sky, and he could help but read them as black omens on the horizon.

* * *

><p>On a wind-whipped branch outside of Frederick's Manor, a fat crow shrieked urgently like a ringing telephone with no voicemail. There were no neighbors to complain about the noise save for the spiders in their silvery embroidery and the rats in the walls, and neither was willing to voice concerns to a squawking harbinger.<p>

At last, the master of the house crested the stairs and entered the husk of a bedroom, easing open the rusty shutters to find his dark servant. "Speak," he commanded of the crow.

After a series of plaintive caws, the master nodded solemnly. "So my parents plans to return to whence it all began? Interesting. The foundation of every good trip begins with meticulous planning," he added, tapping his fingers deliberately over the blackened cover of an aged book, this one emblazoned with a golden owl whose wide eyes stared off into nothingness.


End file.
